hey guys! so this is my first Sherlock fic, and i worked really hard on it. one thing i tried to do was make sure i used only British slang. that might not have worked out so well, so if you notice any mistakes, or any other overall mistakes, please let me know! read, enjoy, and don't forget to review!
soundtrack for this fanfic: its actually the same bach piece mentioned below, Bach's violin sonata No. 2. heres an (altered) link:
youtube dot com slash watch?v=HXnqR9lnXdk&feature=relmfu
That stupid violin.
It stared back at John, mocking him. But, like most else in the apartment, he didn't have the heart to move it. Everything was the way Sherlock had left it. The microscope still sat on the kitchen table. His room was untouched, bed still unmade and robe thrown across the floor. His target practice smiley-face remained on the wall, never painted over. The only thing John did move were the thumbs-they had started to smell after a while.
It had been a lot more than while by now. One year, 4 months, 6 days, and 7 hours. Not that he was counting, or course. No one else was at this point; they'd all moved on ages ago. Molly, Lestrade, even Mrs. Hudson had given up. His therapist had tried to get him to let go, but John refused to give up hope. It drove her mad, which John thought Sherlock would have found funny. Eventually, he simply stopped visiting her, despite Mrs. Hudson's urging. She didn't understand- no one did. Sherlock had been more than just a flat mate, a partner in crime, or just another friend. He was his only friend.
Sherlock had appeared in his life at a time when John desperately needed help. The consulting detective distracted him, gave him something to do, and basically kept him off the ledge. John never realized how much Sherlock truly did for him until after "The Fall". Sherlock, the observant bastard, had noticed every time John was on the verge of quitting his job. Had realized the moment that John walked through the door that he had broken up with Sarah, even though Sherlock barely remembered her name. Sherlock was able to tell when he just wanted to be alone, or when he desperately needed something to do to distract himself and drag him out of his misery. Sherlock had always known. John only wished he had realized it all when Sherlock was still here.
John sighed and looked at his watch; it was getting late. He had to get to sleep, or else he might fall asleep at his desk at the clinic again. The doctor stood up slowly from his chair and shuffled towards his room. He tried not to look at the door to Sherlock's room as he slipped into his own. John sat heavily on his bed before crawling under his blanket. He shivered- it was freezing in the apartment again. John knew the cold would keep him awake, but he didn't have the energy to get up and change the thermostat.
It didn't really matter either way. He never slept these days, chill or not. John refused to admit it, but he had grown to fear the night. He dreaded sleep and the demons it brought, night after terrifying night. Giant black dogs adorned with the crown jewels. Soldiers with massive sniper guns and glowing red eyes. Men laying on train tracks with their heads bashed in, while deranged taxi drivers sprayed hieroglyphic symbols in yellow spray paint next to them. People he recognized. Complete strangers. And always, always, Sherlock.
Sherlock being ripped apart by a ferocious hound that let out a howl that sounded more like a low roar. Sherlock swallowing the deadly pink pill and dropping to the floor while John watched on in horror from the other side of the window, a minute too late. Sherlock gagged and tied to a chair, straining against his bonds, while John scrambled to dismantle a machine that would impale Sherlock with a weather tipped arrow if John wasn't fast enough. And every night, without fail, Sherlock falling to his death. Sometimes Moriarty pushed him. Other times Sherlock jumped himself, or simply fell of the ledge, pushed by a strong wind. John would be forced to watch as Sherlock fell almost gracefully, coattails streaming behind him, before crashing onto the sidewalk with a horrible, heart shattering, CRACK! John truly tried to sleep, but every night, as he lay down to sleep, he knew that he would be spending the night reliving "The Fall".
These weren't the first nightmares he'd been tortured with since he had moved in with Sherlock. During his first week on Baker Street, John woke up every night like horrible, demented, clockwork; breathing heavy, sheets twisted around him and soaked in sweat. But one night when he woke up gasping for air, another sound filled the early morning silence aside from his labored breathing. John rose to his elbows and strained his ears to listen. Was that... Violin? After a moment of confusion he recalled what Sherlock had said when they'd first met.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
John relaxed back down into his bed, calmed by the music. He lay there, listening to the soothing melody. He finally placed it as Bach's Violin Sonata No. 2 as he drifted to sleep. By the time Sherlock finished the piece, John was dead to the world, lulled into a peaceful, dreamless unconsciousness. He was definitely in too deep a sleep to notice when Sherlock had snuck his head through a crack in John's door before retiring to his own room to sleep.
This happened every night. John would wake up, terrified out of his wits, sometimes screaming or even crying. One night, he woke up to find that he'd torn his blanket clean in half, his nightmare having convinced him that it was a person gripping his throat, squeezing the breath out of him. But every night, John would be soothed back to sleep by his seemingly insominiastic flat-mate and his violin. And in the morning, the flat-mate in question never said a word. In never occurred to John that Sherlock was playing for him. Not until after it was too late.
Sherlock had seen him at John lowest point. He'd been there for the army doctor in his psychotic, abrupt way. But when Sherlock had needed his help, John simply scoffed at him. John thought back to that night in Dartmoor. He had never seen Sherlock so shaken, so bloody terrified. And what had John done? He'd pushed Sherlock away, mocked his fears. John yelled at him and called him he was a coward. In truth, it had scared him to see Sherlock, usually so collected and unattached, suddenly full of vivid emotion and fear. Instead of paying him back for all that he had done for him, John refused to help. Would it have been any different if John had helped? Stayed and comforted his friend instead of stalking off in a rage? Could John have saved him? If only John had gotten his head out of the sand and noticed Sherlock's obvious depression. If only he'd seen what was happening to his friend. Sherlock had always been there for him, but when Sherlock needed him, John completely blew it.
It seemed as if he could never get anything right. He no longer talked to Lestrade or the others, he couldn't keep a steady girlfriend, he was even on probation at the clinic, where he had been forced to return to. He couldn't even keep the blog going for Christ's sake! There was simply nothing to write anymore. What he had said so long ago to his psychologist, "Nothing ever happens to me," now became true. Every day was so dull, the same routine, day in, day out. It was monotonous; every day blended into the next. What was the point anymore? What difference was he really making? He'd lost everyone and everything worth living for. So why bother going on? He was constantly miserable, and there was no chance his life was going to get any better. So why not just end it and get the pain over with?
John rose unsteadily to his feet. He turned to his night table and silently withdrew the only item he'd brought with him to this apartment from his old one. The thing that saved Sherlock's life not long after they'd first met. And now it would end his. It was slightly poetic, John thought, as he turned it over in his hands carefully. Could he really do it? Just pull the trigger and end it all? Yes.
John felt an eerie sense of calm settle over him as he raised the gun to his forehead. A single bullet to the brain, that's all it would take. He'd seen it before. Fellow soldiers laying on the ground, a hole straight into their temple. They never even had time to cry for help. Images flashed through his brain. Fallen soldiers. Dead bodies he'd been forced to stare at during various cases. John almost smiled. The nightmares would plague him no more.
"I'm coming to join you, Sherlock," he whispered. He took a deep breath a slowly pushed his finger back.
Suddenly, he was on the ground, and the gun was being knocked out of his hand. A man was standing over him, breathing heavily. John tried to make out his face, but it was concealed in the shadows of the dark room. John grew furious.
"Who the bloody hell do you think you are? Barging into my room in the middle of the night? What do you want from me? Who sent you, Mycroft? Just leave me the bloody hell alone!"
"I can't do that, John." A voice said softly. At the sound of the voice, John's anger drained away, replaced with confusion. The voice was almost...familiar.
The man stepped out of the shadows, unknotting his blue scarf and flattening the collar of his coat.
"Really John, do keep up." He said with a slight smirk.
"Sherlock." John breathed. "No. No. There is just no way. I'm dreaming. This is just another nightmare, and in a few seconds, the fake Sherlock in front of me is going to die a horrible death, like always. It's just another dream. Snap out of it." He began slapping himself on the arm in an attempt to wake himself up.
Sherlock, or whoever he was, frowned slightly. "I would appreciate it if you stopped talking about me as if I'm not here. I'm standing right in front of you. Do I like an imposter? Stop staring at me as if I'm not real."
"Y-you-you expect me- after all this- after more than a year of- I can't do this. I can't do this."
John sank to the floor and put his back against the wall, clutching his knees to his chest. Sherlock walked towards him slowly.
"John, I realize-"
"No!" John yelled, and leapt to his feet. "You don't realize, you don't understand! You don't understand what it was like watching you jump! You can't possibly know what it was like! The funeral, everyone forcing me to move on, trying to forget you and live a normal life, it was horrible! You never think about anyone but yourself! It probably never even crossed you mind- what would happen to everyone else that you knew after you jumped. At first I felt bad for you because I thought you were suicidal, and I felt horrible for not noticing. But now, seeing that you obviously did not commit suicide, know I know that you just LEFT us. Left me! You didn't even bother to think about anyone else, did you? You don't get that other people care! Other people care about you, Sherlock, and would be hurt if they saw their only friend jump to their death right before their GODDAMN eyes! People actually care about you, Sherlock! I care, or at least I did. Now I can't understand why I even bothered. Don't you dare go and say that you know what its like. You don't have the right to say that. You would actually have to have a heart to feel the pain I did, and you obviously don't. So just stop and leave and stop goddamn hurting me and leave the bloody hell alone!"
"John." Sherlock said slowly, his voice sounding constricted. "Kindly remove your hands from my throat. Please." John finally became aware of what he was doing. He had pushed Sherlock against the opposite wall and had begun squeezing Sherlock's throat. He quickly dropped his hands to his side, stepped back, and looked down, embarrassed. He was still shaking with anger and emotion. He didn't know when he'd started crying, but tears were streaming down his cheeks. He quickly whipped them away and attempted to rub the red out of his eyes.
"Not as if I'd be able to hurt you anyways." John muttered as soon as he collected himself. "Nowhere near strong enough."
Sherlock looked at him quizzically. "No? When I left…" His voice trailed off.
"Yes," John said bitterly, "when you left." He flicked on the light switch so Sherlock could see just how much he'd changed.
Sherlock gaped at him, but was obviously trying to conceal his astonishment, and John knew why. In the past year, he'd lost weight- a lot of weight. All his jumpers hung on him. His face had grown gaunt, almost hollow, and he had deep purple circles underneath his eyes, a testament to his nightmares. John heard Sherlock give a sharp intake of breath.
"John-" he began. Then he stopped. "I-I'm sorry." John was stunned. Sherlock just- apologized. He pressed on. "I never meant to leave you like I did. Molly was going to help me stage my death, and Mycroft had set up a safe house in the country for us to-"
"Who's us?" John's voice dripped with venom. "You and 'The Woman'?"
"John, this has nothing to do- Argh, how do I explain all this to you?"
John raised an eyebrow. "Argh? Rethinking the pirate plan are we?"
Sherlock gave one of those quick smiles of his in response, and John simply couldn't help it. He gave an involuntary, lopsided smile back. When Sherlock saw his smile, his face lit up in a way John had never seen before. Sherlock shed his usual mask of boredom and indifference, his face the epitome of absolute happiness, as if his sole purpose in life had been to get John to smile once again. The almost childlike glee and obvious relief that Sherlock was radiating made the fist clenching John's heart loosen a bit. Sherlock was truly back, after all this time. Wasn't this what he had been hoping for?
"Sherlock," John began slowly, "I spent the past year mourning you, trying to move on with my life."
"And a bloody good job you've been doing, I can see."
John shot the idiotic genius a look. "I know that, you bloody idiot, thanks very much. That's not my point. Now that you're back…I-I need to know if you are ever going to disappear again. To prepare myself." There was a tone of slight desperation in John's voice. He didn't want this to become a regular occurrence-Sherlock disappearing for years on end, John having no idea whether or not Sherlock was even alive; it simply was not going to work. John refused to have his heart torn apart again.
"John, you have no idea how hard it was to leave you." Sherlock hesitated before continuing, and if John didn't know any better, he'd say the man looked almost nervous. Sherlock took a step towards him. "I never wanted to leave you. But Moriarty's men-they would have killed you if I dared try to contact you. I spent the last year untangling Moriarty's web. Tracking down every last contact. But I finally finished, so I came back." Sherlock placed his hands on the shorter man's shoulders. "I'm here now. And I have no intention of leaving again. Ever."
John's eyes began to tear slightly and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him into a hug. Sherlock stood there somewhat stiffly, a bit awkward with the unknown type of physical contact, as John's tears soaked the shoulder of his coat.
After a few moments of standing in John's embrace like a dead fish, Sherlock untangled himself from John's arms.
"There is still so much I need to tell you, but it's already late. You need to sleep." Sherlock said firmly, blocking John's protests. "Besides, tomorrow we go back to work. I can't have my blogger falling asleep on me."
John smiled slightly, and for once didn't argue. Sherlock closed the light and left, shutting the door softly behind him. John slipped back under his covers and closed his eyes. And as he drifted to sleep, John heard the strains of Bach's Violin Sonata No. 2 playing softly downstairs.