WARNING: EXTREMELY DEPRESSING PRETTY MUCH THE WHOLE WAY THROUGH.
DEPRESSION AND ATTEMPTED SUICIDE.
The ending is adorable, I promise.
Fall asleep to dreams of home,
Where the waves are crashing.
The only place I've ever known,
Now the future has me.
I see the fire in the sky,
See it all around me.
I said the past is dead, the life I had is gone.
Said I won't give up,
Until I see the sun.
Hold me now,
Till the fear is leaving,
I am barely breathing.
Waking up and letting go,
To the sound of angels.
Am I alive or just a ghost?
Haunted by my sorrows.
Hope is slipping through my hands,
Gravity is taking hold.
Said I'm not afraid, that I am brave enough.
I will not give up,
Until I see the sun.
Hold me now,
Till the fear is leaving,
I am barely breathing.
Crying out,
These tired wings are falling,
I need you to catch me.
As I burn,
As I break,
I can't take it anymore.
I return to the place,
Where the water covers over everything.
Rescue me somehow.
Hold me now,
Till the fear is leaving,
I am barely breathing.
Crying out.
These tired wings are falling,
I need you to catch me.
Hold me now,
Till the fear is leaving
I am barely breathing.
John stood on the edge of St. Bart's ready to join Sherlock. All he needed to do was take one step and he would hang in mid-air before plummeting to the concrete several stories down. He stepped forward…
The first several weeks after Sherlock jumped John did nothing but stare vacantly around the flat, not even bothering to eat. Mrs. Hudson had waited three days until she had gone up to find John unconscious on the ground, exhausted from not eating. She had called Lestrade and they had gotten John to the hospital, and ever since then Mrs. Hudson had come up at least once a day to make sure John ate something.
John didn't really care anymore. Wherever he looked he saw memories of Sherlock; the excited Sherlock with a case, the bored Sherlock shooting the wall, and it all ended with the desperate Sherlock jumping off the roof of St. Bart's. Whenever his day-nightmares and nightmares ended, John would either start yelling Sherlock's name, running around the flat searching for his flat mate, or he would sit in his chair, sobs wracking his ever-thinning frame.
Lestrade had tried to get him a case, but when John had gotten stuck, he looked to his side, expecting there to be a tall figure in a dark coat with a blue scarf and dark curly hair. When there was no one there to ask a question to, John had bustled over to a taxi and ended up curling into a ball the second he reached the flat, not even bothering to take his coat and shoes off. The life I had is gone he thought.
Three weeks after the fall, with John only cat-napping or dosing, he passed out for two and a half days. Mrs. Hudson had found him on the couch, and had almost freaked out. She had thought he had committed suicide, but was reassured when she put her hand under John's nose and felt his even breathing.
Nonetheless, she had called Lestrade again and they had, yet again, admitted him into St. Bart's to be taken care of.
After the first three months without Sherlock, John went back to working at the clinic to get away from the flat for a short period, but he always went back, he couldn't bear to leave it. When he was in the flat, he ghosted around, not seeing or feeling anything, though it gradually got better, over the period of nine months.
On the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John went to the gravestone to look at it, and talk. "When you…fell…I burned. I'm broken Sherlock, and the only one who can fix me is…you. I came back after a year of…not…visiting…to ask for one more thing. Save me Sherlock, help me not be broken. I don't know how you would do it, I never knew how you did things, but…just…help me. I can't…feel this way anymore."
He stood, seemingly expecting a reply, but got none.
Eventually, he sighed and walked away from the stone that covered his friend and headed back to the flat. He was sure of what he would do now.
When he got to the flat, he wrote a note and left it on the table that no longer had experiments on it. The glassware and burners and things weren't gone, no, John couldn't bear to get rid of them, they were simply organized in the cabinets. There were no more body parts to be found in the fridge, oven or microwave, or anywhere else for that matter. They had all been thrown away.
The case files had been organized, the mail wasn't stapled to the mantle by a knife, but the knife was there, folded.
All in all, the flat was much more organized than it had been a year previous. It was like John's old apartment he had lived in before Baker Street.
Finished with his note, John straightened and walked out of the flat, locking it as always as he left. He didn't plan on returning.
The cab ride to St. Bart's was short, but it felt like too long to John. It felt like he would be late. He wanted to do it exactly when Sherlock had. He walked through Bart's and up the steps, until he reached the rooftop. He stood by the door and turned, taking in the scenery Sherlock had seen. Once done with his review, he walked to the ledge and stepped up onto it.
John stood on the edge of St. Bart's ready to join Sherlock. All he needed to do was take one step and he would hang in mid-air before plummeting to the concrete several stories down. He stepped forward and heard a voice call his name.
Two arms wrapped themselves around his chest and pulled him backward. John's military training kicked in and threw off his attacker so John could get a good look at the offender's face. What he saw was not what he was expecting.
A person who looked remarkably like Sherlock stared up at him, breathing hard, the man's ice-colored blue-green eyes stared frantically up at John and the man's hands clutched John's forearms.
"John, I'm not dead, I'm alive, and I'm back. Don't jump, please. I heard you at the cemetery and – " The man was cut off by John punching him in the jaw.
"Shut up! You're not the first hallucination I've had and I know you're not real. Sherlock is dead, so go away. Let me see who you really are."
The man paused, his hands not letting go of John's arms.
"John, it's really me, Sherlock." The man said, slowly; as if he wanted John to listen and understand. As if he was coaxing a wild animal to calm down. "If it isn't, how did I grab you and pull you back? How did you grapple with me? How did you punch me? How are my hands still holding your arms so you don't jump?"
John growled and yelled, "Stop asking all these questions! Just…just go away." John started crying. "Shit, I haven't cried in nine months. It's all your fault." He sniffled, sitting up from kneeling over the man with his hands by his head.
The man sat up and John looked over at him. "Are you really Sherlock? Is it really you?" John asked, tentatively.
"John, give me your hand." John reached out his hand and the other man grabbed it. He touched John's hand to his face, then pulled it into his dark curly hair.
"John, listen to my voice. If you've had hallucinations then surely you know what my voice sounds like. You should know that it really is me. Now, if I let go of you, you're not going to go jump off, are you?"
John reveled in his newfound observation before answering, "No, I won't jump." The man, Sherlock, nodded and stood up, pulling John with him. When John was standing, Sherlock pulled the smaller man into a hug. Sherlock breathed in John's scent, but it wasn't as John as it had been. It had changed, just as the man had changed.
John breathed Sherlock's smell, and found it hadn't changed much at all. It smelled a little more exotic, like Sherlock had traveled to many different countries, and it smelled slightly of blood and gunpowder, but other than those things, Sherlock's smell hadn't changed.
Sherlock pulled away from John first, and walked John towards the door in the roof to go back down to the rest of the hospital.
At the sidewalk, Sherlock hailed a cab, never letting go of John's hand, always reassuring the older man he was real, he was alive, that this wasn't a dream.
The cab ride was short, as it had been the first time, and Sherlock pulled John out of the cab gently at 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock unlocked the door, led John up the stairs and into the flat itself. Sherlock looked around the flat, seeing how organized everything had become, and began taking his shoes off. John followed his motions, still not quite believing everything was real, and the problem arose when it was time to take off the two men's jackets.
Sherlock gently pulled his hand out of John's, swiftly took off his coat and scarf, and helped John take off his leather jacket. When they were both out of their coats, Sherlock took John's hand again and led John to the kitchen to one-handedly make two cups of tea.
"You don't drink tea during the day." John commented with a small smile on his face. It was the first thing he had said since the hospital.
Sherlock smiled back and said, "I do for homecomings."
John looked up at the taller man, hope in his eyes.
"Are you home?" Sherlock looked at him and knew what he was saying. Are you here to stay?
Sherlock nodded and said, "I'm home."
John smiled, his eyes brimming with tears, "Welcome home."
The blogger pulled his missing detective into his arms and smiled into the taller man's chest. Sherlock hugged him just as tight and bent his head down, whispering both to himself, the flat, and the man in his arms,
"I'm home."