There are probably thousands of these types of fictions by now. But Heaven knows I can't get on board with anything until it's out of style. Please supply constructive criticism.
Corrected by the marvelous Ani-maniac494-
This is entirely from John's perspective. The song is C'est La Mort by The Civil Wars.
When John had glanced upward and spied Sherlock on the ledge, he'd frozen. Suddenly, Sherlock's words had become indistinguishable noises, tinny thru the phone's speakers. John's line of vision had wholly centered on the lanky figure atop the hospital roof. When John's brain had finally interpreted the circumstance, pure fear galvanized him. Rapid, stuttering reproofs and warnings had tumbled from his mouth, as he ambulated directly below his friend.
Then he heard clearly, "Goodbye John"…..
And the world had stopped with John Watson's heart.
Swan dive down, eleven stories high….
He still recalled vividly, Sherlock's thrashing limbs. The detective's body had been rebelling against his intention to end himself, still searching to grasp something. Sherlock hadn't really wanted to die yet. Everything but the man's brain had known that.
Hold your breath, until you see the light…
John's own body had forgotten how to function, as he witnessed his best friend disappear behind the rushing London masses.
He'd run to where Sherlock had fallen.
It wasn't until he'd collided with a passing biker that'd he'd remembered he wasn't breathing.
You can sink to the bottom of the sea,
"I'm a doctor." He'd shouted and pushed aside the gathering paramedics.
"I'm his best friend," he'd gasped, stumbling forward.
In that instant, he'd only seen the blood leaking from Sherlock's skull.
"Oh." He'd felt his knees fold.
He'd been incapable of anything, inhaling or thinking, while they lifted the world's only consulting detective onto a gurney.
Just don't go without me.
In the next months, John, level John, resilient John, indomitable John, fell apart. There were no dramatic alterations in his behavior. There was no plummet into depression. The agony was slow. He was comparable to rotting fruit.
Go get lost where no one can be found.
He gradually disappeared from any social scene he'd frequented within the last year. The blog was updated perhaps once, twice at most. He began ignoring his phone and email. Sometimes he wouldn't answer the door. Sometimes he wouldn't get out of bed.
Drink so long and deep, until you drown.
John was a doctor. He'd devoted his life to keeping people healthy, and he'd always begin his mission with his own conduct. A cigarette had never touched his lips. He never drank more than two beers. His career, and his first hand example of the detriment of addiction, his sister, had always kept him on the straight and narrow. And he'd preserved his clean slate thru both his parents' deaths and the soul-mutilating trauma of war. Yet, after the selfish suicide of someone he'd known less than a year, he conceded to vice.
Say your goodbyes-
"Why did you do it Sherlock?" he slurred at the tombstone.
The silence and the alcohol were a volatile mixture.
"WHY DID YOU DO IT?"
The empty bottle didn't shatter when it hit the marble.
But, darling if you please-
"Why'd you do it…."
Don't go without me.
One thing John sometimes truly despised about his own character was his irrepressible ability to bounce back from everything. Time healed, no matter how he resisted. His own needs became apparent to him, and so did the finite nature of his funds. So, he was forced to creep back into the world, and to his chagrin, the process was not as painful as he'd thought.
C'est la vie.
Life reminded him he was still taking up its time in the most discomforting of ways. And it did so mainly thru a woman. Her name was Mary. Mary was a counselor he'd sought, after enough of his natural common sense had informed him that he wasn't going to recover alone. Familiar faces carried too many memories, thus the money he was earning again bought him a new one with whom to talk. He found himself liking her a bit too much to keep the relationship professional. Time flew. Before he realized how much time, he'd married her.
C'est la mort.
It took him a while to realize that, even with all the new additions to his existence, the hole Sherlock had carved remained, hollow, gaping.
He was subsisting. He was even having fun.
But it was a rather Consulting-Detective-shaped cavity he possessed. No one he'd met since bore the equivalent heart and brilliance of that man…and an equivalent ego was completely out of the realm of possibility.
Eventually, John Watson knew he was okay with it being that way.
You and me, forevermore….
John had always thought a "soul-mate" was a romantic relationship. The term in the past would only caption the image of an elderly married couple, walking hand-in-hand. For Dr. Watson however, the actuality was quite dissimilar from what he'd imagined.
A bond he didn't form with his father, his mother, his sister, his wife, he'd formed with a complete stranger, within a day.
John was aware that the world would never understand this sort of thing.
Because he was completely aware that he never would.
Let's walk down, the road that has no end.
When his son was born, John became old. His friends would certainly object to this notion, yet he knew better. Confronted with a face so new, a soul so untarnished by the world, he was cognizant of his scars, and his fragility. For the first time in quite a while, he cried. He let his nose run, and his tears irritate the baby in his arms. Still red and puffy, he met his infant's searching, bewildered eyes.
"You know, I was originally going to call you Hamish. Aren't you glad I found something better?"
Steal away, where only Angels tread.
"Stop wriggling" John reprimanded the recalcitrant child in his arms.
He really ought to have known better. Mary was always talking about the power of names.
The boy was conforming to his appellation's heritage far more quickly than John ever wanted. Sighing as back creaked, he crouched before the stone, so that he was eye-level with the engraved moniker. The boy stilled for a moment in curiosity.
"Sherlock, I want you to meet Sherlock."
Boy and tombstone initiated an impromptu staring contest, one the grave inevitably won. Diminutive Sherlock decided he'd had enough paying attention for one day, and managed to squirm out of his progenitor's grasp. It wasn't too difficult. His parent was fairly preoccupied.
The anniversary of his best friend's death-
The thought engendered an ache in John's sternum. The corners of his mouth lifted, in a distorted half-smile. A full minute passed before he could speak.
"I still don't know why you did it."
Heaven or Hell, or somewhere in between…
"But, I'm not angry."
He exhaled.
Cross your heart, to take me when you leave.
"I'm not angry, at you dying."
He forced his gaze to meet the smooth surface of the gray marker.
"I have a really good life. I'm a dad now. I would not give that up for anything."
Just don't go…
"But, I still wonder, Sherlock…"
Please don't go…
"Why couldn't you have just taken me with you?"
Don't go without me.
Just to clarify, this is not intended as Yaoi. I'll appreciate any pointers/corrections given. Thanks for reading! God bless bros!