It's All Coming Back to Me Now-Part I
John had openly avoided 221B. So naturally, the one day he would finally make up his mind to come back and visit, it would be in the middle of a mid-autumn thunderstorm. But, he had made up his mind and he was going to do what needed to be done. He set his jaw and opened the door to their no, the sitting room. He stared around the room and took in how it all looked so unchanged empty but for the piles that had sat untouched for over a year. He was unsure of where to begin, now that he was really here. The thunder grumbled outside and the single lamp john had turned on flickered slightly, but that was not going to stop him tonight.
John walked over to the stereo and blew some dust off of the top of it. He swiped a hand over the front of it and pushed the power button. It's face lit up and he was surprised to see that a CD was still in the machine. He pushed "eject" and the machine gently opened up to reveal a blank copper-colored CD. He shrugged and pushed the little tray back into it. He walked into the old kitchen and was almost instantly rattled by the sight of Sherlock's His flasks and test tubes on the kitchen table. John rubbed the palm of his hand over them to confirm the dust. He looked down at the grey smudges on his palm and seemed to make up his mind about something.
He turned toward the cabinets and rummaged around until he found a small box of rubbish bags. He hauled them out just as another great clap of thunder and lightning made the room as bright as daylight. As he passed the stereo, he absentmindedly pushed the "play" button. If nothing else, at least the music would keep the ghosts at bay while he worked.
As he opened the bag and bent down to start collecting old journals and papers from the floor, the stereo started just as another peal of thunder wracked the flat. Strangely, the music was preceded by a loud thunderclap. It was like hearing it twice. The rumble of a motorcycle was melodic as it flooded his senses.
"There were nights when the wind was so cold
That my body froze in bed
If I just listened to it
Right outside the window"
CRASH! The loudest one yet. The light flickered and died for a moment. All sound cut off in the room. John felt the darkness as one feels the touch of a lover. It was comforting somehow and he was not afraid. Strange, that. The first time he had ever not felt afraid since...well, just since.
The light flickered back to life and the CD resumed almost from where it had stopped.
"There were days when the sun was so cruel
That all the tears turned to dust
And I just knew my eyes were drying up
Forever"
BOOM! This one rattled the windowpanes. John kept cleaning. In just a couple of moments it had gone from an unwanted chore to something else entirely. He picked up an old discarded piece of notepaper with only the word "Hope" written on it in a steady, looping, hand. Lightning flashed again outside and the dust motes that flew through the air were beautiful things. In John's mind, he could still see through two windows to where Sherlock He stood with the cabbie. Without any real conscious thought, Captain John Watson was back. At that moment, none of the implications for the future mattered to him. All that was important was that one life Sherlock's star should never have been extinquished.
"I finished crying in the instant that you left
And I can't remember when or where or how
And I banished every memory that you and I had ever made..."
But that wasn't true, not at all. So many memories swarmed through John's mind. It was the first time he had felt the relentless march of these memories all at once. He had managed to keep them at bay since...the Fall, John, no one should fear calling something what it really is... and tonight they chose to all come back at once. John stood for a moment and tried to fight them. He was a soldier, he could do this. As the music played, he found himself on his knees on the thread-bare carpet, head is hands, being assaulted on all sides from the memories scenes playing through his brain on a loop. The tears rushed down his cheeks, completely ignored. The pain he felt never stopped, not in over a year. He had felt that pain the emptiness .day. Everyday.
"There were moments of gold
There were flashes of light
There were things I'd never do again
But then they'd always seemed right
There were nights of endless pleasure
It was more than any laws allow..."
The last line of the stanza burned through the memories of John's mind. As if on cue, lighting flashed again, reminding him of so many nights of sprinting through London with an unregistered weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans. As he sat back onto his feet and wiped his eyes he could feel the familiar weight of it again. Never afraid of the battle, you miss it, Dr. Watson.
CRASH! The room lit up again as John rocked to his feet. He slowly went back to the sink and washed his face, the cool water stilling the storm on the inside that matched the one outside the building. Other memories built up, memories of loud voices and angry words hurled back and forth. He knew it was impossible for two people to spend as much time together as he and Sherlock as...they did and not have some angry words. He would cut John down to size when John could not quite keep up. John would retaliate by walking out, slamming the door behind him. Of course, they always came back together in the end, once after three days...but they always worked it out. It had never been this long...
"There were those empty threats and hollow lies
And whenever you tried to hurt me
I just hurt you even worse
and so much deeper..."
For a few moments, John just let the storm rage outside and felt the music wash over him. It was like standing in a waterfall, the words washing the grief and the pain away. Maybe now he could finally move on...
CRASH! There was the smell of ozone and then the light went out again. The silence was heavier somehow this time. John knew the room well enough to move toward the sofa. He fully intended on just dropping down onto it and perhaps resting until the storm was over. But there was something...
A fresh bout of lighting ripped through the flat. For a second there was nothing and then he... Sherlock ...he was ...he was THERE.
Everything about the lines of that body was instantly familiar to John. Without a doubt, without a question, his feet moved him forward toward the figure who was reaching behind himself to close the window he had just crawled through. Dramatic as ever.
And then he turned and the thunder crashed again, rolling over them. With another flash of lightning, John could see into those eyes that he had missed. He knew his soul was just as ragged bare to him...no, Sherlock. There was no longer any reason to keep his name silent. He was HERE.
In the second before John opened his arms, he saw the taller man flinch. Of course he expected violence. But now was not the time. The healing process that had been sped up by the storm and the music was escalating and could not have been better at that moment. Perhaps later, but now was not the time.
Without warning, the light flickered back to life and the bulb blew with a tiny spark. The music, however, rolled on, unimpeded. As the bodies of the two men crashed together, there was another earth-shaking rattle of thunder as if the gods celebrated. Up on Olympus, the goddess Athena smiled down at one of her own. The next crash that rolled over them illuminated their faces close, deeply gazing for an instant before their lips met. The taller figure almost shrinking in size, curving his back and leaning down as far as gravity would allow without falling. Grabbing tightly, hanging on, pushing as close as they could be. As close as they needed to be at that moment. John's hands flashing in the dim light, one reaching up to bury itself into shaggy dark curls, the other cupping a stubbled cheek. Sherlock's hands just grasping...I need you so much... It was tender and passionate and hurt and want and necessary. And they would never ever let it go again, never.
"If you forgive me all this
If I forgive you all that
We forgive and forget
And it's all coming back to me
When you see me like this
And when I see you like that
We see just what we want to see
All coming back to me
The flesh and the fantasies
All coming back to me..."
The thunder crashed against the earth and the window panes rattled. The front door opened and a woman screamed, dropping a glass plate to the floor where it shattered into a million pieces that caught the lightning and threw it back like diamonds onto the two men who slowly and only slightly parted from each other as they turned toward the door. They held their arms out to Mrs. Hudson and she joined them in their joy.
Notes: This story is based on this song written by the ultra-talented Celine Dion, and written by the legend behind Meatloaf, Jim Steineman. It was also inspired by this fanart: post/26485044098 and this one, especially: image/34917077465 because when I looked at it, I felt my heart stop for a moment and because I could hear the thunder and see the lightning in my mind. It's also the scene it my head that Mrs. Hudson sees when she opens the door.
This is the one I worked on the longest, trying to share my vision. I'd love to know what you think.
My Wayward Son-Part II
Mycroft Homes is a very busy man and as a rule paid very little attention to any type of popular music, instead preferring classical when he listened to anything at all. With his mind, he generally only had to hear something once to remember every single lyric and the melody that went with it. It was strange then that the music and lyrics to an American 70s Rock N Roll song would pop into his head at the moment his little brother appears in his doorway one stormy night. The song dated several years before Sherlock was born, but it seemed somehow appropriate at that moment.
Sherlock stood in the open door, the darkness behind him, his face in half light.
"Evidentally, you told him, dear brother." Mycroft expected fireworks, but all he actually recieved was a strange drop of his brother's head. Time stopped. He had wondered how John was going to take a dead man just reappearing in his life after so much time had gone by. "Sherlock, I would have helped you break the news to him. " The shaggy mane of black hair just nodded wearily. "How did he take it, then?" Sherlock stepped into the low light of the sitting room and by the shiner around his eye, Mycroft could see his answer. He held his arms out to his little brother, and for a moment they went back in time twenty years.
Sherlock stepped into his brother's embrace, falling into the sofa with his arms wrapped around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft was touched. They had been unable to show any real emotion between them for so long that this proved beyond a doubt Sherlock's exhaustion and the depth of his true feelings for one Doctor John H. Watson. Mycroft was surprised even farther when his little brother began to sob in his arms. He just held him tighter and began to hum.
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Sherlock's sobs were slowing now and he had simply dropped. Mycroft very gently carded his hands through the raven black curls gone to seed. Sherlock had done what he set out to do. Mycroft knew coming home would be difficult and realized his own place in the whole debacle.
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high
Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think, I still was a mad man
I hear the voices say I'm dreaming
I can hear them say
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Mycroft thought back to when he had Moriarity in custody. He truly believed that he was helping put an end to this foolishness between the two mad geniuses. As brilliant as he is, though, he did not see the entire plan backfiring quite the way it did.
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, well
It surely means that I don't know
It was then that he felt the need to make a heartfelt apology to his brother. He had tried so hard to protect the other man throughout his entire life. Not only from himself and those around him who could not accept nor understand who Sherlock was at his core, but also from Mycroft himself. He continued to pet Sherlock's head and the other man continued to hang onto his older brother for dear life. They had both made mistakes and with time and John's forgiveness more than anything, they might be able to forge ahead.
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for the winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say
There were many times throughout Mycroft's life that he felt he had left his brother behind to chase his own glory. But how could he ever take care of another person without the means to do so? He closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest, just allowing himself for a moment of misery to truly be sorry for ever attempting to extinguish the light that was Sherlock's genius.
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, none can equal the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty
Surely heaven waits for you
And while humming those words, Mycroft acknowledged that any heaven of Sherlock's would include John Watson. At that very second, there was a bang on the door, a perfunctory warning before the door was slammed open. John stood there for long enough to see where Sherlock had gone. Sherlock would find out later that the minute he left the flat at Baker Street, John was right behind him. It simply took a few minutes to catch up with the other man.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I did not mean any of those things I said to you. Please understand." Sherlock's sobbing was hushed. He sat up and wiped at his eyes so much like the child he had been before. Mycroft's heart broke, yet again, for his little brother. Sherlock stood up, only a little shaky and within seconds John was in his arms. Mycroft watched them in awe, knowing that nothing else existed at that moment between them. Maybe he had been wrong that caring was a weakness, it sure as bloody hell didn't look that way. Maybe caring and sentiment was like a suit of armour against the outside world, the pain and the hurt from not fitting in, maybe this would finally heal Sherlock and allow him to be even better then before. It would smooth his edges, and maybe, if he was lucky, Mycroft might be touched and be permitted to share in some of that light.
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
Nights in White Satin-Part III
John can't keep himself still. His head is pounding with the very idea that with a burst of energy his best friend was back in his life, almost as quickly as he had stepped out of it. Or jumped out of it, rather. It was okay, he could say that to himself now. For a few seconds, it felt like his heart was going to just pound right out of his chest, he took a deep breath. The London around him looked fresh and new, cleaned from last night's storm, or perhaps everything just looked this way because John felt new and clean. It had been almost impossible for John to let Sherlock go last night. He had a vague memory of Mrs. Hudson coming through their door and then she was there in a huddle with them. John had never felt so glad to be alive in that moment...it was wonderful; he will never forget it as long as he lives.
Then his anger had resurfaced with the tempo of the storm and he had railed at Sherlock for a time. As the words tumbled out of his mouth and his fist connected with that beloved face...well, he wasn't sorry to finally have his emotions out there, but he was sorry he had reacted in such a physical manner towards his friend. He had even chased him down and was very surprised to be led to Mycroft's house. That was yet another scene that John will never forget the rest of his life. Since he had known them, he had only caught glimpses of Sherlock and Mycroft as younger men. What he saw in them both last night was bigger than all of them. He saw fresh and old wounds that had begun to scab over, to heal. Why did it take so much hurt to make so many things right again?
He had gone back to his temporary flat for a bit this morning, mostly to tell the landlord he was leaving, but also to pick up what few things he had that needed to be moved back to Baker Street. He felt as if he was floating a meter off of the sidewalk as Speedy's Cafe came into view. The windows to their flat were open and he could hear the strains of a violin wafting through them. He shifted his bag to the other shoulder and just stopped moving altogether there on the sidewalk. Even in bright daylight, the sound is haunting. John quickly recognizes the first few bars of music and the lyrics pop into his head. He should question the fact that someone who claims to have no space on his "harddrive" for popular music, especially a song that's over thirty years old-but he doesn't. He has never ceased to be surprised at what has ever come from that man, except for the biggest thing, so why should he start now?
Cold-hearted orb that rules the night...
He can't help it, he is actually shaking now. Everything that has happened in the last forty-eight hours is being leveled at him from those windows. He drops his bag to the ground and stands still, transfixed as the violin's lovely voice sings out to the street.
Beauty I've always missed with these eyes before
Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore
It's the chorus, though, that makes him grab the bag of his belongings and move up the stairs.
'cause I love you
Yes, I love you
Oh, how I love you
He pushes open the door and is immediately transfixed by the tall, lean figure with the violin under his chin. John can see the muscles working in Sherlock's arms as he draws the bow across the strings, deft fingers coaxing the haunting sounds from the instrument. John can almost hear the thing cry from disuse. His mind is taken back down to the streets below them, long, lonely days when he truly believed he would never feel the rush of excitement again, never hear that voice in his ear as they lean back against a wall watching some criminal nutter and calmly waiting for backup (well, mostly anyway.) He remembers all the words from everyone around them, all the side-long glances and then it was all just gone.
It can be there again. There will be some rough places that need to be smoothed out, but when you wake up wrapped in someone's arms, when you finally feel the proof of another beating heart under your fingers, you know that your life is right again. And somehow better than it was before.
Just what I'm going through, they can't understand
Some try to tell me thoughts they cannot defend
Just what you want to be, you'll be in the end
And I love you
Yes, I love you
Oh, how I love you...
In the back of his mind, if he watches Sherlock play hard enough, he can see him dressed in a white tuxedo, an orchestra all around him. The lights are turned down low. Sherlock stands up in the middle of it all, playing to John, his fingers reaching into John's chest and twisting, pulling, kneading...giving back a life that he truly believed dead and buried.
Sherlock finally opens his eyes as he plays the ending crescendo. John steps closer, ready to lose himself again in the depths of those green oceans that have held ever promise John has ever made in his entire life. This one he will forever keep. Sherlock sets the violin down at his feet and John steps into the taller man, those long, lean arms going around him, holding him close. Sherlock is humming and John's mind flashes back to the scene between the Holmes' brothers last night. The humming is a comforting sound, without giving away too much feeling to anyone outside the embrace. It is beautiful and John feels his soul brighten up just a little further. He closes his eyes and leans in, tighter, as close as he can get. Sherlock moves the bow from one hand to the other, finally letting it drop softly next to the instrument on the floor. They don't move, but John can feel the music from Sherlock's chest as if it is being broadcast into his own. He can feel Sherlock bend slightly at the waist as if he is trying to wrap himself around the smaller man. His cheek rests against John's head. John pulls Sherlock tighter to himself and stands there, listening to the most beautiful sounds in the world.
Nights in white satin,
Never reaching the end
Letters I've written, never meaning to send
Beauty I've always missed with these eyes before
Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore