Title: Birds from the Blossoms

Author: General-Senyaka98

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

A/N- Title from Tom Waits' "Green Grass". Also, this takes place a bit into the future (not a lot) where Mary and the baby died from complications during childbirth. Yeah, I'm sorry about that.

Summery: "It doesn't always work. There have been a large number of miscarriages. And some of the clones have become ill as they age. Many have died, and not peacefully. But you could have him back. At least, the genetic bit of him." Temporary Major Character Death, but only for a very brief while. If cloning disturbs you continue to scroll. This is not for you.

Chapter one

"It was pivotal in making you but you don't remember it. Or do you? Do we understand the events that make us who we are? Do we understand the factors that make us do the things we do?"
― Douglas Coupland, Shampoo Planet

Sherlock pressed the violin under his chin and slowly stroked the bow to and through, letting his eyelids droop as the notes rolled over his shoulders. In the song he could hear the gentle push of wind against a window, the sigh of sleep, a confession breathed into your ear. He leaned against it; his spine swayed with the curving dips and tugs of sound. His breath evened with the bow, in with each swipe and out with every stroke. His bones became hot tar and melted his muscle, loosening the rods of his body. He allowed the crawling high to tear his flesh up and remove him from the gnarled cage of rib and vein. He was ethereal; a being without meat to tether him to the earth. If he wished, he could float away and kiss the night sky.

A bang rattled the ceiling, and Sherlock slammed back into himself. He blinked away the ghost of flight and glanced up, brows arching questioningly. It was possible that John had woken up with a heavy bladder and tripped on his way to the bathroom, but unlikely due to the neatness he gleaned from the military and the relative softness of the sound. Less bang, more clatter. More likely that he was angry and had thrown something. Not much to piss someone off at the late hour of 12:03. It wouldn't be nightmares, as those make him pace (sometimes cry, but that is rare and he isn't supposed to know). He hadn't gotten out of bed before the thud, or Sherlock would have heard the creaking floorboards. The object thrown had been small and not too heavy; something Watson could lob with enough fervor to make the ceiling quake. His phone was the most likely candidate, as it was always at his bedside. Then, Sherlock figured, he had received an upsetting call and chucked the phone. Could be a girlfriend (but no, it couldn't. Not anymore), but that wouldn't upset him so badly. Work would be more irritating that infuriating. Sherlock himself obviously hadn't done it.

"It's Harry. I need to pick her up." John called from the top of the stairs, where he could be heard hopping about madly as he fought to keep his balance and pull up his socks simultaneously. Sherlock sighed. If John had kept quiet for just a moment longer he could have figured out that his sister was just wandering about drunk again.

"You could leave her." The suggestion earned him a glare, and John stepped into his boots a bit more aggressively than necessary. Sherlock replaced his violin in its case and watched silently as the other man bundled up. He was seething, Sherlock imagined, because this was yet another failed attempt at sobriety and Harry had given in for a moronic cause. There wasn't much of a shock there, as the woman didn't seem capable of keeping abstemious. That, though, was a bit hypocritical on his part.

John yanked on his coat and was zipping it when he paused, stared into the closet, and sighed a bit reproachfully. His hand shot into the higher reaches of the closet and slowly, almost cautiously, emerged with a long length of cloth. Sherlock watched, eyes pinching objectionably when he saw what the other man was holding out to him.

"Right. Can I borrow your scarf?" He grumbled, waving it like a white flag as if Sherlock wouldn't know what he was talking about.

"No." He said darkly, and John's shoulders slumped significantly as he became aware that he would have to fight for neck comfort.

"You destroyed mine, and it's snowing outside." He gestured the hand holding the scarf at the window behind Sherlock, who didn't need to look to know that there was essentially a blizzard outside. The mental image of Harry stumbling around in the mess slithered into his mind, and he found the whole thing a bit comical. The corner of his mouth tilted upward, but he managed to suppress the snigger that would only earn him pain.

"I didn't destroy it." He sniffed, running his hands along the back of the couch. John crossed his arms, and Sherlock frowned as he smashed the scarf into his left armpit. He hoped the other man wasn't sweating, as he wasn't in the mood to wash the thing.

"The cranberry juice you wiped up with it won't come out." John growled, neck and shoulder muscles tightening in agitation. Sherlock cringed, having had forgotten the entire incident up until this point. He had been happy that there were no witnesses to the whole affair, as he had looked a bit ridiculous flouncing around in a panic over spilt juice. The scarf had, at that time, resembled a rag. There was no malice in the act of sweeping it over the juice, just a poor combination of agitation and alarm.

"It wasn't unusable." He murmured halfheartedly, taking his hands from the couch and tugging at his sleeves a bit indignantly instead. John snorted, but tossed the scarf into the closet (a bit more carelessly than Sherlock would have appreciated, but at least it was returned to his own coat's side) and pushed the door shut with wistful finality.

"I'll remember that next time I do the cleaning and you've left a shirt lying around." John snickered, squinting wickedly across the room. Sherlock quickly scanned the room for laundry before focusing back in on his grumpy companion, who was working to twist the doorknob without removing his gloves. Sherlock sighed before shuffling across the short stretch and helping the man, who thanked him quietly and stepped out.

"Goodbye." Sherlock said, not exactly pleased with the tone of his voice. He sounded a bit like a tired wife.

"Bye." He called over his shoulder, raising a hand. He slipped and nearly fell down the stairs on his way out.

John tucked his chin into the collar of his jumper and trudged along the sidewalk, eyes scrutinizing the road bitterly for a taxi. He was careful with his feet, trying to bend and curve with the ice so as not to glide against it. His ribs ached as the thick wind scraped roughly over his body. Flakes of snow were kissing his eyes and lips, clinging to the soft skin until time melted them away. His jaw unclasped as a particularly eager gust of wind clouted his face and rushed up his nose. He choked against the burn and coughed pathetically into the air.

He eventually spotted a cab as it turned the corner and waved his hand out, the tips of his fingers burning as winter's hand clutched them through his glove. The car slowed and when John sighed with relief a bubble of fog rolled out from his lungs. He climbed in with a brief look of gratitude to the driver, who nodded and blinked as John told him the name of the bar. Pity slashed the older man's face, and John wondered whether he figured the situation out or just thought he needed a drink.

John's mind felt lax, and the gentle sway of turning through London was like being rocked to sleep. His head rolled back against the seat, bouncing lazily as they rolled over potholes. Car rides had always relaxed him; he would fall asleep if he was comfortable enough, and whoever was riding with him would jostle him awake with a few jibes and elbowing. Sherlock had always found the habit annoying, and Greg had worried out loud about it being a convenience for killer cabbies. But the tender mixture of sitting still and soaring forward lulled him, not caring about whatever negatives he used when trying to reason himself awake.

And it seemed that, even as time moved forward from his grievances and he was meant to heal, he could no longer sleep without the motion. Nights were spent lying still and staring desperately at the ceiling, as if wood would burn away and reveal to him the dusty night sky speckled generously with blinking stars. He could imagine the air around him cooling as the walls fell away and he would be in a field, hand tangled with another as two quiet voices guessed at constellations. He could believe, if he wanted, that the dark would finally peel back and show him something beautiful. Then light would creep through the gap in his curtain and break whatever semblance of hope he had held onto that night. Morning brought aches and yawning, earning him distressed looks from Sherlock who, though he didn't really understand, thought that this would be over by now. John understood that this was a plague that had very possibly come to stay, but that wasn't something he wanted to explain to the other man.

So John finally slept, and never felt the crash.

"Try to remain calm." Lestrade rumbled, and Sherlock put down the tea he had been sipping at. There were few reasons anyone would open a phone conversation with such an off putting start, none of which were appealing.

"I take it you are not calling with a case, then?" He said, and a muscle in his cheek pulled downward. He would have preferred it if Lestrade would keep the weepy phone calls between him and John so the necessary details could be relayed back to him. That method entailed much less on his part and shooed away people's need to tell him he was heartless and uncaring when he didn't blubber around like a fool.

"No, Sherlock." The annoyance he had expected to hear was missing from Greg's voice, and Sherlock cocked his head curiously. What he was about to be told was apparently affecting the man, but also meant to upset him, which likely meant that it was something big. Big, more often than not, meant exciting. He cleared his throat and leaned back into his chair, putting out an air of nonchalance before speaking.

"Then you should have just texted me. Really, Lestrade, you know that I prefer to-" He was shut up by Lestrade sniffing loudly. He squinted at the wall, not accustomed to having his words cut off so rudely. Neither of them spoke for an uncomfortable amount of time, and Sherlock considered just hanging up on the man. He jumped when Lestrade finally started, his voice dragging as it would with an overly practiced speech.

"I was called out a bit ago for a wreck. A taxi driver blew a stoplight and collided with a bus." Lestrade paused to swallow and clear his throat. Someone on his end was shouting, but it was garbled. Probably a medic. Sherlock sighed loudly and picked his tea back up; settling in for what would more than likely be a worthless and uninteresting story punctuated by an emotional Detective Inspector huffing a bit more radically than was really necessary.

"If you're calling me about a wreck then I damn well hope the bus took flight." He snapped, his drink sloshing around a bit when he jerked his arm animatedly. Lestrade, surprisingly patient, carried on with his story as if Sherlock hadn't interrupted. Something extraordinarily big was happening, then, if there would be no arguing. Abnormal gentleness was normally saved for tragic loss. Likely someone he worked with; maybe Anderson.

"So, I was a bit surprised because I don't really go out for wrecks anymore. But I went anyway, because they wouldn't just call for me if they didn't need me. I figured that there was something off about it. When I got there, Sally walked to the car with this look on her face. I thought maybe someone on the squad was hurt." Sherlock took his humorless laugh to mean that his assumption was incorrect and frowned.

"Was the bus completely empty? That would be interesting." He emptied his cold drink into the sink and discarded the unwashed cup to sit on the sofa. He fell back with a groan and sprawled out, closing his eyes to better imagine the scene.

"And I asked her what was wrong, but she just shook her head. I got out and followed her to the taxi. It's crazy, Sherlock. The front of the bus is a bit messed up, but the taxi. Christ. It looks like a squashed pop can." Lestrade audibly shuddered, which either meant that it was gory or he was envisioning being squished. He knew that was something John did; they would be looking at a dead body and he would get sympathy pain. Sherlock couldn't imagine that being a good habit for a doctor of any kind to have.

"Could you get to the point? If you need my help, I need to know what the summit of your blabbering is."

"The driver was thrown from the cab and was run over by a second car. They've already taken the body away. And Sally was holding my hand, and I was sure it was going to be my dad or something. Then I heard the paramedic chuckling. She was holding the passenger's hand. He was making the damn paramedic laugh after he had been told he was going to die." He laughed dryly and then sniffed again. It was wetter this time, and he gasped roughly after. That meant actual tears, which Sherlock was not equipped to deal with.

"Are you calling me to cry? I can hand the phone to Mrs. Hudson." He whispered, uncomfortable. He stood, gripping the bottom of his jacket and wondering if she had taken her 'herbal soothers' yet. These weren't the types of conversations he was good at; he had learned on more than one occasion in the past year that he was actually dreadful at giving comfort.

"I couldn't tell who it was, but Sally told me that a large portion of his body was being crushed by the car. The doctors are just letting him die." Greg spit, and then groaned nervously. It reminded Sherlock of the way John hummed when he was angry but trying not to shout or strangle whoever it was directed at.

"The metal is probably holding him together. No chance of survival; there's nothing you could've done." He said quickly, attempting to reassure. His neck was suddenly hot, and he wished he hadn't dumped the tea. He moved to the door, hoping that Mrs. Hudson was still able to console properly when woken up at two in the morning.

"But I wanted to see his face. Sally couldn't make herself tell me who it was, so I went up to the car and smiled at him over the medic's shoulder. Christ, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. He's just broken." Sherlock paused with one foot a step lower on the stairs than the other, his hand tight on the rail.

"Lestrade?"

"I couldn't think of anything to say to him. He smiled a bit, and this line of blood went down his chin. The lady wiped it up." Greg rambled, voice clipped and rattling, Sherlock could feel his chest tightening. He slowly backed up the stairs and moved behind the closed door of 221B. This was wrong; he could feel it crawling in his flesh like a disease.

"Why did you call me?" He breathed, turning around in the living room and seeing everything. His brain raced with where's John? Why hasn't John called? Why isn't he back yet? And he clapped his hand down on his temple to make it stop because he couldn't concentrate and he needed to hear.

"So I just said 'hi, John' and he asked if I would call you and explain so he could…I'm so sorry." Greg stammered; voice barely more than a whisper. Sherlock's head was buzzing, and he tripped over his own feet. His hip slammed into John's armchair, and it pushed back under his weight; elbow cracking against the floor. He grunted, but pulled himself back up quickly.

"Where are you? Tell him I'm coming. Tell him… where are you?" He shouted, not bothering to quiet himself when he heard Mrs. Hudson startle with a muted yelp. He was at the closet getting his coat and shoes, holding the phone up to his ear with an inclined shoulder.

"He'll be gone by then. You said it yourself; the car is keeping him in place." Lestrade's voice was soft, and the obvious pity made Sherlock's shoulders ache to punch something. He shook his head, eyes pinched shut, and continued buttoning his coat.

"I was wrong. There may be some permanent damage, but we can work past that." He garbled, knowing it wasn't true but desperate to make the fear curling in his stomach go away. Greg sighed, slowly blowing air from pursed lips.

"He wanted me to explain so he wouldn't have to when you two talked. I'm supposed to give him the phone. Stay put, Sherlock. Just talk to him." He said slowly. Sherlock stopped, heart thumping painfully, and shook with understanding. He wasn't going to get an address. His body deflated and he slid limply down the wall. A warm eye noticed that one of his boots was stuck on the heel of his foot and he hadn't buttoned his coat up correctly.

There weren't any sirens, he thought, brain feeling warm and watery as milk. If there were survivors someone would have their sirens on. There would be more noise. But there was just quiet and a few muffled commands shouted over the wind. He tried to picture it; John's flesh purple and bruising where the car had bent and pressed into him, face contorted with fear as he watched people move around him. He swallowed thickly and tilted his head upward, kicking his boot off with an angry jolt.

"Hey." John's voice was hushed and brought queer relief to Sherlock's chest. A gush of air popped from his lungs and he ran a clammy hand through his curls.

"Hi." He squeaked, and John chuckled at the sound. It was a sincere chortle; one that rumbled through your chest before fluttering madly up your throat.

"How're you?" He asked casually, and Sherlock squinted questioningly at his knees. This wasn't the sort of call he had to make often, but he was fairly certain that this wasn't the way they normally went. He had figured there would be more tears or desperate confessions.

"Hungry, I suppose. I haven't eaten for a bit." He said with a shrug, flapping his hand aimlessly.

"I recommend the tiny Chinese place where they give you larger portions because you helped lean suspicion away from their son after he was accused of murder."

"Maybe," Sherlock dragged the word out, pushing himself back up and moving to the couch. "And you?"

"I don't think I'll be eating." John snorted, and Sherlock's jaw clenched painfully.

"No, I meant how are you?" He snapped, because John had known full well what he meant. The other man sighed softly, possibly regretting the attempt at humor, and made a small sound of understanding.

"Well, it's a bit nippy." John said pointedly, and Sherlock could imagine the tiny smile that always crept on his face when he was teasing. It was diminutive, but always stood out around his eyes. Thinking of it worked his own face into a grin, and he shook his head exasperatedly.

"If only you had a scarf." Sherlock murmured, trying to sound sarcastic. There was a waver in his attitude, though, and he absentmindedly stroked the blue cloth around his throat. He should have just let the other man take the damn thing.

"Lestrade generously let me borrow his. I think it's because I'm dying, but he might've let me have it anyway. I'm not sure." John emphasized the word dying, as if he wanted to make absolutely sure that Sherlock had absorbed the news when it had been transferred to him and was well aware that this would be it for them.

"Don't." He warned, fisting his right hand over his cell. Certainly there was more to be done; there was always one last slip of the hand to get them out of these situations. A surprise phone call before the trigger was pulled. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose with edgy hands and rocked as he thought. He had to be capable of fixing this, because all they had become couldn't be wasted on a damn car accident. Not with John locked in place, being watched by useless medics who were just waiting for him to die so they would wrap him up and cart him away.

"I think he's taking this badly. I didn't know he liked me so much." John's tone was light, as it would be as they discussed their days over dinner. It was comforting; surely a voice so relaxed wasn't truly in any danger. The beauty of disguise was that it eased an anxious soul.

"Everyone likes you. You're infectious." He picked at the loose strings on the chair's arms as he said it; almost embarrassed to be giving the complement, though it was a simple one and plain to anyone who met John.

"We always end up here." John whispered after a few moments of thoughtful silence. Sherlock inhaled deeply, not wholly understanding what his friend was saying. He could hear Mrs. Hudson playing music on her radio and tapped his food distractedly.

Where?"

"Saying goodbye over the phone."

"Oh." That yanked him away from the song, and his body stilled for a beat. This would be an odd time for John to want him to explain the process of faking his death, but it wasn't impossible that it would be requested. He would certainly prefer that over an argument over his moral compass and more questions he wasn't sure he was capable of answering. He undoubtedly wouldn't be able to stand more disappointment towards him.

It's a bit funny." John suggested, and Sherlock sputtered.

"That's debatable." He grouched, raising his eyebrows. He didn't find the situation even remotely funny.

"I'm laughing." And he did for a bit, but the guffaws quickly mutated into a wet cough. Sherlock listened as air cracked painfully from John's chest for a good time before he finally wheezed out of the fit.

"I believe that was hacking." He eventually said, rolling his eyes at himself.

"Yeah, well, I have the excuse of falling apart." John conceded, and his words carried a shrug and awkward arm flap.

"Please, you'll be fine." Sherlock's voice raised in volume as he spoke and he huffed loudly to punctuate himself.

"As a doctor, I feel fairly confident in confirming the paramedic's diagnosis." He was suddenly solemn, any hint of the delight he had earlier carried falling away to reveal solidity and hurt. The drop of tenor swept over Sherlock, and he gnawed on his tongue.

"And it doesn't hurt?" The words came out thickly.

"No. No, don't worry. I'm very comfortable." John muttered.

"Are you afraid?" He asked shyly, a shiver down his spine asking if he really wanted to know.

"A bit, but you're helping. Really."

"I can come, John. Just tell me where you are." His eyes flickered around the room, hunting the clothes had tossed away from himself.

"Just talk to me." John spluttered, voice begging Sherlock to listen to him just this once. They were both still; John's panting framing the hope in his plea.

"What do we talk about?" Sherlock seethed, eyes roaming up to the cameras Mycroft had installed. They weren't being fair; it wasn't right to keep him ignorant so he had to sit on his ass and do this over cells. This wasn't what either of them deserved.

"I have a few wishes. Ones that can't be put in a will." It was said carefully, like John didn't want to be heard.

"I don't want your last requests. I don't want you to die." He growled, a tiny vein pressing against the skin of his neck. He tugged agitatedly at his own hair and cursed.

"I don't think we have much of a choice." John's words were beginning to stick together; catching at the end in a lazy slur. It was light; barely noticeable.

"John." He was almost begging, not wanting the conversation to take this route. John hummed at him as he did when neither of them had slept and it was time to behave. Sherlock picked at his fingernail but nodded to himself; leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. "Okay."

"Um… Tell Greg… that's Lestrade, it case you've forgotten again… tell him that I think he's a great Detective Inspector, and to have a little more faith in himself. Also, tell him to just tell Molly already."

"Tell her what?" Sherlock questioned, drawing his brows together.

"He'll know. Just tell him."

"He's with you." He reasoned, partially out of confusion and partially because he wasn't fond of the prospect of actually saying that to the other man.

"And I'm with you. Tell Molly thank you. On your part. I'm telling you to say thanks to Molly for what she's done for you." John said accusingly.

"I've thanked her." Sherlock argued, closing his eyes.

"Do it more. Make her smile."

He didn't think that would be such a challenge, as the woman seemed to find his presence alone something to smile at. He didn't mind being around her all that much either.

"I can do that."

"And hug Mrs. Hudson. Tell her she's an amazing cook and mother. And maybe fix the wall. No, I think she likes the wall. Just give her hugs more frequently. Some from me." He was slowing down, pausing periodically as if he had forgotten what he was trying to say.

"Of course."

"Tell Anderson how you did it, for God's sake. He spent two years believing he killed you, and it tore him apart, so tell him."

"Yes."

"I'm serious."

"I'll do it."

"And, uh… work on your relationship with Mycroft." He said suddenly, voice stern.

"That's impossible. You've met Mycroft; you should know." He returned his gaze to the camera, squinting with the mental image of him and his brother just going out for chips.

"He can be unpleasant, but he's lonely. He doesn't deserve to be alone. Maybe he and Lestrade can be friends."

"I can't tell if you're joking."

"It's worth a shot. Who am I forgetting? This would be a bad time to forget someone."

"You might have me tell Harry to stop drinking." He suggested venomously, expecting John to defend his sister. He instead seemed to ignore the recommendation all together.

"Tell Mary that I'm very sorry. So sorry." His voice was nothing more than a breath against Sherlock's ear, but he still caught the pain. There was no one to apologize to; Mary had died over a year ago. John's dying mind told him otherwise. Sherlock grimaced, pressing his fist against his forehead for a moment before agreeing.

"I… alright."

"And I want you to be happy. Be good." John demanded, pushing Sherlock into silence.

John's breath was shallow and rough, and Sherlock pressed the phone harder to his face to hear. He didn't know how to do this; he couldn't remember how to be alone. How ever he had trained himself into not being forlorn was gone; pushed away by the warm thrill of companionship. All he could imagine now was an empty flat and the shuffling of mourners and condolences. He didn't want any of it.

He felt abandoned, cheated, and overwhelmingly sad.

A strange sound came from him then; a strangled wail that seemed to release a rush of pain in his chest. He leaned forward, wrapping his arm around his stomach and holding back a groan of pain. Sherlock had experienced many different kinds of hurt in his life, from skinning his knee to having a bullet twist through his flesh. But this was something entirely foreign; an internal ache that pulled over his shoulders and gripped his ribs. It throbbed after each heartbeat. The pain of death as it steals that which is most important to you. He inhaled sharply and pushed himself hard against the back of the chair.

John sighed in response; the sweet sound of someone dropping down into sleep. And then there was nothing. No whispered comforts or chirping beetles. No bated breath in his ear to declare life.

He waited for John to say something that would make it okay, but nothing more passed between them.

A/N 2- If you don't like this format I also have this posted on Archive of our Own with the same title.