This story is inspired by Say Something, I'm Giving Up On You by A Great Big World. Please listen to the song while you read. This story takes place after the events of season three. Trigger warnings of depression and suicidal thoughts.
John closed his eyes, remembering the last day he had seen Sherlock Holmes. Everything had seemed perfectly fine—perfectly ordinary. They had made plans, plans to work on a case together as soon as Abigail was born and getting up and about. It was all going to be perfect.
That was until he had received the call. He opened his eyes, trying to drown out the flashbacks, but it was pointless. He couldn't help but give into it, to relive his nightmares—his memories.
A member of the police department was the one on the other end of the line—he had been expecting it to be Lestrade. Instead, the individual was gruff and uncompromising. It was the slight tinge of pity in his speech, however, that instantly had alerted John to the problem.
"Mr. Watson, you are listed at Mr. Sherlock Holmes' emergency contact," the call had begun. Endless possibilities had flickered through John's mind, yet the worst was yet to come.
He saw it then, and he could still see it now—the slab of stone, with Sherlock's name chiseled into it smoothly. It had been lost and forgotten in a sea of the dead, without anyone caring about who that man was. It was a mockery of a tribute to him.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes is dead, Mr. Watson. He was found this morning by a Mrs. Hudson. We need you to come and collect the body."
A drug overdose. That had been all that it took, to make John feel more alone than ever in the world. And to this day, weeks later, he still couldn't decide if it was an accident or not.
Both possibilities haunted his dreams—the idea that Sherlock threw his life away purposefully, leaving him behind, seemed horrifying. Yet equally terrible was that Sherlock had never intended to leave—that he expected to wake up in the morning and greet the world another time.
There was no heaven or hell, John decided eventually—there was only suffering.
And now, sitting in the hospital waiting room, John was awaiting the birth of his first child. Mary and he had already agreed to name the child Abigail. He regretted the decision—the child should have been named Sherlock.
But perhaps it was for the best—even thinking his name caused him to feel like a bullet was piercing through his chest.
Yet it continued to worsen. In his nightmares, Sherlock came back from the grave once again, abandoning him and finding him again once more. The cycle repeated, nonstop, and John could never properly grieve. He couldn't mourn his best friend, as he couldn't be sure.
He was sentenced to a life of constant agony—a life of uncertainty. He would never be able to know if Sherlock was dead or alive—no matter what. Even if a deity descended from the heavens and pronounced Sherlock dead, John wouldn't be able to believe it.
He just couldn't.
The door to Mary's room creaked open and a man, dressed from head to toe in surgical gear, looked over at John worriedly. John's heart broke a little more.
"You'll want to get in here, Mr. Watson," the nurse informed him. "I'm so sorry."
"It's Dr. Watson," John corrected him, feeling light headed as he practically charged into the hospital room. A nurse's hands were covered with blood, and a doctor looked around frantically as the hooked up the baby to a contraption.
"John," Mary called out, lying weakly on the bed.
The baby was a shade of blue, barely distinguishable underneath all of the blood. The team was doing all they could to save her, John realized, and his heart broke. He couldn't pretend to be an optimist. He knew Abigail wouldn't be coming home with them.
Mary reached an arm out to John, straining to do such a simple motion. Her eyes were filled with tears and love—feelings that John believed he felt for her. Throughout the entire course of their relationship, he had idolized Mary—she was a goddess, sent to grip him tight and bring him away from hell.
And somehow, that only made him grow hatred in his heart for her. Mary was his guardian angel—yet she couldn't be anything other than that. And when he found out about her past, his entire world that he had fabricated shattered.
He was left with the ugly truth—no more fantasies.
"I love you," John whispered, holding his wife's hand. "You're going to be okay."
Mary smiled weakly, her eyes becoming more and more distant by the moment. "You'll take care of our little girl, yes?"
John swallowed thickly and nodded, waiting for the adrenaline to sit in. His wife was dying before his eyes—and yet he was completely numb. There was no sense of urgency—there was nothing.
"Of course," John replied. "But you're going to pull through, Mary."
"I'll tell Sherlock you said hello," Mary said. "He knew you loved him, John."
A few tears started to well up in John's eyes and he blinked, trying to get rid of him. The coldness of his heart melted away, bringing forth the pain. For a moment, he completely forgot where he was—he didn't know who he was.
All he knew was that Sherlock was gone.
Mary took in one last breath. "You don't have to deny that you loved him, John. It's okay to have your heartbroken."
Her hand dropped out of John's, falling against the bed. She could have been lazily relaxing, in the glow of having given birth. But her eyes were still and empty, void of life and feeling.
A strangled sob came out of John. Someone was patting him on the back, muttering hasty condolences over a woman they hadn't known. He was being walked out of the room and into a quiet place, yet he was completely unaware of his surroundings.
"John?" someone said, sitting down next to him. He didn't know how much time has past. It could have been centuries, and it wouldn't have changed anything.
He didn't answer, staring off into space. Perhaps he was thinking about Mary, or wondering if Abigail was still alive. Or maybe he was recalling the last words he had said to Sherlock.
"See you then, mate."
They were so simple.
Too simple.
How could they ever convey what he had felt to the detective? In Sherlock's last moments, did they come to mind? Did he imagine John saying those very words again as it all slipped away, and his cries for help went unheard?
Or did he not think of John, their friendship as ephemeral as those words?
"John," the voice repeated, stronger. Someone was shaking him, desperately trying to get his attention.
He turned his head, sadly meeting the eyes of Lestrade. A relieved smile slipped over Lestrade's face, and he pulled John into an embrace. "God, John, you had me worried there."
John didn't reply—he is too stunned, too raw, too wounded.
"I've been working on the funeral arrangements for Mary," Lestrade said gently. "They think Abigail should be able to pull through—she'll need to stay here for another month or so."
"That's fine," John said, the sound of his own voice seeming foreign to his own ears. He cannot even recall what his child looked like—all he can see is the blood, and Sherlock's voice ringing in his ears.
Lestrade nodded awkwardly. "I can get you some coffee, if it helps."
He didn't say anything, but Lestrade rose from his chair anyways. He walked across the room, pouring out a cup of awful coffee from the machine, before returning to John. Handing it to him, he held onto it for a good three minutes before John took hold of it.
"Drinking that should be good for you," Lestrade said, trying to encourage his friend, to coax him out of this state.
John sipped a bit of it delicately, his hands completely steady. He didn't taste the drink, hardly even feeling it as it burns his throat. He placed it aside, having downed all of it in one gulp.
"That's good," Lestrade grinned, before falling into silence again. No one tried to talk to John again for what may have been hours—they let him dream and mourn, cry and smile, laugh and swear.
He thought of the first case he had met Sherlock on, with the pills. One of the pills brought life; the other brought death.
Maybe dying wouldn't be that bad.
"Lestrade," John said quietly, clearing his throat. "I want you to be Abigail's godfather."
"Oh!" Lestrade's eyes widened, and he grinned, completely stunned. "I'm honored, John. Not that you're going anywhere soon, of course, eh? Abby's going to be in good hands."
John nodded, a bittersweet feeling spreading within him quickly. He lapsed again into silence, not bothering to glance up at the clock. They wouldn't let him stay there all night—Lestrade would see to it.
"John," Lestrade chuckled a bit, patting his friend of the knee. "Would you like to go meet Abigail? They said she's well enough now."
John blinked a bit, before nodding. He stood up mechanically, attempting to keep his mind focused on the tiny life he was about to meet. Instead, it was more of the same thoughts that had haunted him. He hadn't even come out of his daze enough to speak with Lestrade about Mary.
The horrifying thing for John, however, was that he didn't feel a need to talk about her. He wanted to discuss Sherlock. Yet there was nothing more to say, nothing more that could be said.
He had exhausted words, relying on pure, thick, and merciless emotions. It was a gaping hole in his heart that pulsed and throbbed, that hurt and healed.
"She's a beauty, they say," Lestrade grinned, leading John to the nursery. Through the glass, they could see the rows of babies, all of them healthy and new. In the very front, there was a tiny bundle.
Abigail Sherlock Watson, a little tag read.
"Sherlock?" John questioned, imagining that he had hallucinated it.
"Yeah," Lestrade frowned. "Mary insisted—wanted to surprise you, I think."
"Oh," John nodded, falling into silence.
Abigail was asleep, unaware of the world around her. Her tiny little fingers were wrapped around her blanket, and a tiny bracelet on her wrist identified her as John's child.
"She's not mine," John said, his voice sounding hollow and strange.
"What do you mean?" Lestrade frowned, confused. "She's your kid, isn't she? You and Mary's."
"I suppose," John said. "But she isn't my kid, Greg. She just isn't."
Lestrade's frown deepened and he peered at the child, attempting to find a trait that looked just like John's. It was bad science, but anything that would reassure his friend would be worth it.
"You don't think Mary cheated on you, do you?" Lestrade asked. "She loved you, John. She was hopelessly in love with you."
John nodded, very much aware of the fact. He turned his gaze away from the babies, looking away from the little creatures filled with the promise of a new beginning. He didn't meet Lestrade's eyes, instead gazing off into the distance at something no one else could quite see.
"She didn't cheat on me," John stated quietly. "But Abigail isn't my child—she just isn't. I…I don't have the words for this, Greg. I just know."
Lestrade nodded, clasping a hand onto John's back. "Have you considered going back to see Ella again? She could help."
"What use would it do?" John laughed sadly. "With my luck, she'd end up dead as well. You'll probably be dead next, Greg."
Lestrade shivered a bit, looking at the slightly bizarre glint in John's eyes. There was a wounded soul inside of there, begging to be helped, begging to be heard and to be noticed.
"You have had a lot of people die around you, John," Lestrade agreed sadly. "The woman you loved and your best friend."
John chuckled again, misery still painting the strangely happy sounds. "I didn't love Mary…I loved the idea of her."
He had told Lestrade that he was going to get help. He had stopped eating completely, doing little more than drinking and getting up in the morning. Abigail remained in the hospital, being monitored strictly.
She wouldn't notice if anything went amiss. She didn't even realize she had a father—it would make no difference. Lestrade would be able to raise her just as well.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said, slipping his gun into his pocket.
He left the flat that he had shared with Mary, hailing a cab. It took a few tries before one came to him—his hearse had arrived. He climbed inside without a second thought, handing a fifty note to the driver.
He had no use for money anymore.
The driver was a bit confused, but shrugged it off. "Baker Street?" he confirmed, his breath reeking of tobacco.
"221B Baker Street," John repeated, settling in uncomfortably in the back of the cab.
The ride had seemed so much longer on that night. He had left as soon as he had gotten the call. Every stop seemed to take ages, separating him from Sherlock. Somehow, he believed that he could have reversed death, if he could have made it there sooner.
But today, the ride was short. The cab pulled up in front of the flat in a matter of silence filled minutes. John stepped out, looking at the door, his hand trembling for the first time in weeks.
He clamored up the steps, inserting his key into the door. It turned easily, without giving any sort of a struggle. It was as if the rest of the universe was pushing him towards this—no obstacles presented themselves.
"Mrs. Hudson?" John called out, reaching his hand into his pocket.
There was no response.
He walked up the next flight of stairs, entering the flat that he had shared with Sherlock. It was all the same, yet so strange. Dust once more hung in the air, decorating it like fairy lights.
Inhaling, John approached the couch. In his mind, Sherlock's body was still there, stretched out and cold to the touch. The needle was still laying on the floor, abandoned and forgotten, its evil deed completed.
"Say something," John whispered, sitting down on the sofa gingerly.
He choked back a sob, raising the gun to his head.
"Say something!" John shouted, tears starting to blur his vision.
There was still no reply. Despite his nightmares and his daydreams, it was just John Watson alone in the flat. The gun in his hand was very real and the figments of Sherlock taunted him, muttering praises and deductions.
He swallowed, closing his eyes. He could see Sherlock again, floating like a ghost, just out of reach.
John placed his hand on the trigger. Clearing his throat, he listened to the silence, hoping to hear the sound of a deep baritone or a soothing violin. He heard nothing.
He pulled the trigger.