The Stars Against the Blackest Night
By Goldfish
xxx
When John left, Sherlock was quiet. He didn't shout or cry or rage about that night. He laid on the couch and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.
Sherlock noticed that there were other people in his flat. 'His flat' now, he noted dully. Not 'their flat'. 'His' flat. The other people were strangers, but he guessed they were Mycroft's people. They were packing away John's things for when someone came to pick them up and take them away, so Sherlock didn't have to.
He stood, but stumbled. His left calf and foot were asleep. The moving men paused and stared at him, but Sherlock ignored them. Making a quick, easy decision, he hurried upstairs to John's room.
Surely, John wouldn't mind if Sherlock took something to remember him by? Something inconsequential. Sherlock snorted. It was pointless to take something to help him remember John. Like he could ever forget John.
And another thing, John's definition of "inconsequential" was very different from Sherlock's.
Still, Sherlock wanted something tangible, something that would remind him that John's presence in his life hadn't been a dream. Something he could show someone else and say, "This belonged to my friend, my flatemate, my colleague, John Watson. Before I filched it from him." Not that anyone would ask.
Sherlock's eyes roamed John's room, taking in the jumpers and the cane and the laptop. None of these would do. These things could belong to anyone. John's gun, perhaps? No, he wanted to remember John with happiness, rather than the feeling that the gun would give him. He would remember the danger instead of the peace if he took the gun.
Sherlock went back downstairs and pulled open the drawers of John's desk. The top drawer was full of financial information. Dull. The second held the gun, and beneath it, a small photo album. He pulled it out and flicked through it. This would not do either. These memories did not belong to Sherlock. They were pictures of family and old friends and people from the military. There was one picture, near the end, of John and Sherlock. It was from the New Year's Eve party a few years ago with John's military reunion. John had forced him into going, and even in this large group shot, Sherlock could see that his smile was strained and false. John, on the other hand, was obviously drunk and very happy. The photographer had caught him mid-laugh, leaning heavily on Sherlock for support.
Sherlock slammed the album shut and put it on John's desk for the moving men to pick up. He looked back into the second drawer, but the only thing left was a first aid kit. He wrenched open the final drawer, and it was empty save for an enormous, black, unmarked book. Another photo album? Sherlock it up and opened to the first page.
It was obviously John's personal journal. The first entry was dated some eight years ago, not long before he and John had met. He read that first, tiny entry and smiled:
Got shot. Headed home in 2 days. Hurts like hell.
Sherlock flipped to the last page in the book, but it was blank. John hadn't finished it yet. He leafed though the pages, looking for the most recent entry. He found it quickly, about three quarters of the way through. It was dated two and a half years ago, during the time Sherlock had been searching for Moriarty on his own, when John had thought him dead. It wasn't much longer than the first entry:
He's gone and I need to accept it. I need to stop hoping. If I keep up hope, it will destroy me. He was my best friend, yes, but he is gone. Dead. I even said it out loud just now. Sherlock is dead and there is nothing that will change it.
Sherlock's throat clenched. John had cared so deeply, once upon a time. He decided to keep the journal. John hadn't written in it for two and a half years. No one would miss it.
Less than a week later, he had a very unexpected guest. It was Harry, John's sister. He'd only met her twice before, so he was surprised to see her standing outside his door.
"Can I help you?" he asked curtly.
"I have a couple things for you," she said. She handed him a pile of papers and the top one was a letter, which had the emblem of the RAMC emblazoned on the front.
"You'll come, won't you?" asked Harry, suddenly quiet. Sherlock realized that he smelled no alcohol on her breath. "I know how hard it is for you, but I also know he wants you there." He corrected her dully in his head.
"As his friend," he said, laying heavy sarcasm on the word, "how could I not go?"
Harry left after that and Sherlock sat on the couch, stewing in his own mind.
Friend? Sherlock snorted derisively. Friend indeed. Friends didn't do what John had done to Sherlock. But Sherlock would go to the ceremony anyway.
After all, it was the last time Sherlock could foresee that he would be with John.
Sherlock was dressed in his best suit for the occasion. He was pointedly ignoring the noise of the other people in the church and he sat toward the back. Sherlock didn't want to interact with these people who were a part of John's life. He just wanted John back.
The music started and the procession began. Six men in their military uniforms slowly marched up the aisle, the black coffin held upon their shoulders. They set it – John – down on the stand and people went up, telling stories, leaving pictures, laughing and crying, remembering John.
In the back, Sherlock sat with a stony expression, rigid in his rejection of emotion.
Finally, Harry stood up and asked if anyone else had anything to say. Sherlock looked up at her, and their eyes met. It was silent for a moment as Harry held his gaze, and then Sherlock shot out of his seat. No one saw except Harry, and her face changed from one of forced calm into a sad smile.
Sherlock strode up the aisle with purpose and took Harry's place in front of the microphone. He looked out into the sea of faces he didn't know and paused.
It wasn't stage fright. He just didn't know how to express himself to this extent. Words didn't feel like enough.
"John," he said very quietly, though the microphone picked up his it up anyway and magnified it so that his own tortured voice assaulted his ears. He heard a sniffle somewhere in the crowd. He tried again.
"John," he said, but stopped. He let out a shaking breath, trying to find the right thing to say. "John was my…" His voice was still shaking, damn it. "John was my flatmate. He was my colleague. He was my friend." He paused again. The tightness in his throat made it nearly impossible to speak and the water in his eyes made it nearly impossible to see. He swallowed loudly and tried to continue:
"He was my best friend. He was… my entire life. He was my work and he was my home. He was the father I needed and the brother I wanted and the son I'll never have."
Sherlock couldn't see anything. His entire body was shaking.
"He stayed with me. He learned things from me and I learned things from him. He worked with me. In many ways, both literal and metaphorical, he saved me."
He was gripping the podium so hard his knuckles were white, trying to keep himself upright.
"I just wish I could have saved him."
There, he'd said it. Now they all knew; they were all a little less ignorant.
Sherlock cannot breathe because of the arm around his neck when he hears the first gunshot. He hears John's shout of surprise, his groan of agony, then the second gunshot, and the arm around Sherlock's neck slackens. John has saved Sherlock's life yet again.
He clambers to his feet and stumbles over to where John lays on the ground. He sees the dark pool of blood growing and the glistening wetness, and the streetlamp around the corner illuminates John's face.
He realizes he's babbling as John lifts a hand and lays his fingertips against Sherlock's lips.
"Shh," he whispers, his breathing shallow. Sherlock is immediately silent, his eyes going wide in horror as he takes in the data. John smiles at him.
"Thanks," he says.
"For what?"
"For the best – years of my life."
"Shut up," Sherlock orders him immediately. "You are not dying." John chuckles, but it turns into a cough in seconds.
"Trust me, I'm a doctor," says John. "I know when someone's dying."
"No," insists Sherlock. "Lestrade is coming. You'll be fine."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," says Sherlock. "You are not dying."
But Sherlock can see clearly that he is. There's so much blood. John's face is pale and his lips are turning blue. Sherlock's hands begin to shake. "No," he says again, his voice much quieter now. "Don't leave me. Please don't leave me."
"I don't want to," says John, smile unwavering, and he raises a quivering hand again to brush Sherlock's cheekbone with his thumb.
"Don't – " he begins, but John is already gone. His hand has fallen away from Sherlock's face, his eyes are wide and glassy, and he is terrifyingly still.
Sherlock stares into John's eyes. He's waiting. He doesn't know what he's waiting for – maybe John to laugh and say "April fools!" – but he stares into John's eyes and waits. But they are empty now. Sherlock can no longer read John's face because there is nothing left to read. The emotions Sherlock could usually see so easily no longer brighten the blue, no longer dance about in ways that make Sherlock so incredibly euphoric or so intensely irritated. He can no longer see how much John cares. He can't see how much John loves him anymore. There is no longer any evidence. There is nothing.
The emptiness seeps from John's eyes to Sherlock's heart.
Sherlock doesn't move from John's side until Lestrade shoves him out of the way. He hits the ground hard, his cheek scraping against the pavement.