Okay, so last night I mentioned on Tumblr that I was listening to Don McLean's Vincent and wondering why, and MapleleafCameo asked if I was going to follow that up with some lonely Captain Watson angst. Well my friend, your wish is my command. I take no responsibility for the amount of sodding ANGST in this, and there will be absolutely no follow ups Mrs MLC, no matter how much you beg and plead...
Seriously though folks - if you don't like angst, please, don't hurt yourself with this.
John didn't often listen to the music on his phone, and yet here he was, listening. And it wasn't as if this was his music – no, it was stuff he had inherited from Harry when she gave him the phone; he had never thought to change it. Now it played as the soundtrack to his pain.
Life had dealt him a series of blows that had finally beaten him down and left him battered and bruised, licking wounds that now refused to heal.
Three days on, and he was still wearing the same clothes, the same blood-stained jeans that he had been wearing as he collapsed beside the lifeless body of the only man he had ever loved.
Released from police custody, he gave Greg the slip, for once in his life thankful for Sally Donovan and her knack of being forever underfoot with her comments and questions – as Lestrade had turned to reprimand her John had slipped away and jumped into the nearest cab.
Returning to 221B was not an option.
He couldn't face Mrs Hudson, and Greg – despite anything Sherlock may have said – was not totally stupid, that would be the first place he looked.
Mycroft would be looking for him, once he had recovered from the shock of his little brother's suicide, once he had identified and reclaimed the body.
The body.
John remembered the body, that glorious, slender length of alabaster skin stretched over beautifully defined muscles and strong bones, broken now from the impact, torn and bloodied, paler in death than ever it had ever been in life.
It hurt to remember, but as he looked down at his shaking hands his tactile memory could feel how it felt to stroke across the soft warmth, his fingertips leaving a trail of goose bumps across taut skin over toned stomach muscles despite the warmth of the room, and over the sound of music in his ears he heard the one thing guaranteed to wipe from his memory the last words they had shared.
"John…"
It was neither sigh nor groan, nor was it just a name, just a word – it was a plea, a prayer, a benediction, a prelude to orgasm that picked John up and swept them along together, to a shared completion, to an earth shattering conclusion to their demonstration of mutual need, mutual love.
Unsteady on his feet John swayed, a sob escaping from his throat, torn from it as if by nefarious means, but he wasn't ready – not yet – he had more to do, much more to remember. Slowly, carefully, he bent down to sit on the low wall.
That he shouldn't be here was a given, but years with Sherlock had taught him many things – how to pick locks being the one thing he never thought he would need to use – but it had come in handy tonight, now that the hospital security had reduced numbers for the evening shift, after all, this wasn't the kind of hospital that attracted late night drunks and pub fight casualties.
How long he sat there, thinking, remembering, he couldn't tell. The sounds of the city slowly died away, pubs and restaurants closed, and eventually even the underground stations pulled across their metal gates, closed now until morning.
And that was when it happened.
It was as if Harry had known, when she loaded the playlist, that one day it would be this powerful, this meaningful, that it would bring this ending.
John had been looking up at the clear, cloudless starry sky when the first words were sung…
Starry, starry night…
He hadn't known that his sister was a Don McLean fan, but regardless of whether or not she was it was here, now, and John knew time for remembrance was over.
Taking out his earphones, unplugging the jack, he turned the volume up and put it on speaker. It was the play out music in the soundtrack of his life – it captured everything, left no memory unturned, and left him empty. So many parallels, Van Gogh's life to Sherlock's, and although despair had driven both to take their own lives (John would never believe that Sherlock was a fake, NEVER!) there had been no-one to follow Vincent. That thought alone saddened the ex-army doctor as he rose to his feet and stepped up on the parapet.
From this vantage point he could see the spot where Sherlock had died, his body broken, his blood spilled on the pavement, those multi-hued eyes staring, sightless, dead.
The blood was long since washed away but still John could see it, rich and warm, and he stared down at it.
The song was coming to an end.
Had anyone really ever listened to Sherlock? To his brilliance, his great deductive mind? Or had they used him – abused him – and driven him to this?
Maybe he had been the only one to appreciate him, to love and cherish the man he was as well as the mind he had – not just a useful tool, but the great man Lestrade always believe he would be. He was.
Keeping his eyes on the ghost of Sherlock's blood, as he had kept his eyes on the man himself three days ago, John stretched out his arms and let himself fall forward.
And as he fell he knew he was doing the right thing, for he could hear that voice, that beautiful baritone voice calling once more…
"JOHN!"