A/N: I don't know what happened to me, but this plot bunnie just popped up. Hope you enjoy. Perhaps it's be wise to get tissues ready...
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Music on Clouds
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It was late afternoon, the sun shone low over the city, covering her in red and gold and yellow. The people in the streets were warm and sweaty, yearning for some coolness.
John sighed and wiped his right hand across his brow to get rid of the small droplets of sweat that made his forehead shine. He walked downstairs, he had been learning for this test that was looming and lurking for three days, and now he was sick and tired of that. He needed tea, preferably ice tea.
John had been living in 221B Baker Street for almost six months, and sometimes he still needed to get used to the flat mate that hung around all the time. When he reached the landing in the small hall way to the kitchen, he peeked around the door to check if Sherlock was actually there.
His shirt stuck against his back. It was too hot to wear a shirt, but John didn't particularly like to prance around with his ugly scar that covered most of his shoulder and chest. He didn't want Sherlock to think him ugly. He grinned to himself. He was acting like a love-sick puppy.
He sighed to himself when Sherlock wasn't around the flat and he made his way toward the kitchen to seek some coolness in the fridge.
Sometimes he envied the other soldier who had a simple clean gunshot wound that would heal instead of the ripped and glued skin that was his shoulder.
His bare feet padded against the bare wooden floor as he crossed the kitchen, around the small but overly covered table to the fridge. He swallowed hard before opening the fridge door because god knows what lay behind that innocent aluminum door.
He opened the fridge slowly and sighed in relief when he didn't find a head or toes or thumbs. He picked the box of Ice tea and poured it in a glass. He closed the door with a smooth sweep of his hip and carried both the box and his glass to the living room. He placed both on the small table, among the case files and filthy cups.
Tomorrow was the test and he had a good feeling he would make it. If he passed the test, he could make some more money which was good. Money was always tight.
….
John emptied his plate in the bin and glanced at the living room. Sherlock still had not eaten anything from his plate. He considered scolding his friend, but shrugged. If the man didn't want to eat, he didn't, that was just that simple.
He just picked up Sherlock's plate and put it in the fridge. Perhaps he would like to eat tomorrow, if he had finished the case by then.
John chuckled. Of course he would have finished the case, it was Sherlock Holmes they were talking about. It was the fantastic, clever man.
….
It was in the middle of the summer, and John couldn't sleep. He had tossed away the duvet and sheets, he had even gotten rid of his t-shirt and was left in his boxers. He lay sprawled across his bed, trying to find a way to sleep comfortably. Tomorrow he would get the results of the test. Somehow he knew much depended on that test, but what?
He shot up straight and glared at the bare wall. What was so important? He pursed his lips, deep in thought, and chewed his under lip. When he couldn't come up with it, he shrugged and let himself fall flat on his back onto the bed with the rumpled sheets.
He closed his eyes and let his breath escape slowly, creating a hissing sound. Suddenly he heard soft violin notes darting up the stairs and he smiled at the ceiling. Sherlock was thinking again. He sighed again, more content and even somewhat sleepily now.
He felt himself slip away in oblivion, while the notes hunted him playfully.
…
Three weeks later John entered the living room again. He wanted to greet his friend, but saw Mycroft sitting there in Sherlock's stead. He nodded a greeting and sat down, looking expectantly at his best friend's arch enemy who was dressed in a suit and, as always, carrying the umbrella.
"What are you doing here?" John asked. He blinked. Why was his voice so hoarse? He didn't feel ill, so that could not be it. It could be disuse, but he was practically talking to Sherlock all day. He was pondering, but Mycroft continued speaking.
"I came to bring you this," he said while he stood. He pointed at a small white box in the middle of the small table.
John nodded and picked it up. When he lifted his head again, Mycroft was gone. He shrugged and strolled toward the kitchen. He made tea, Sherlock would be home soon. He always liked tea when he had solved a case.
…
Mycroft visited every week. He just sat there, saying nothing. John didn't mind, he had a blog to write, tea to make, experiments to clean up. There was enough to keep him busy, really.
Mycroft always left a similar white box on the table, never mentioning what John had to do with it. Sherlock didn't question his brother's visits.
…
John was cleaning the skull on the mantelpiece when a girl, aged around 25, entered the flat. She looked vaguely familiar, but John didn't know where he could know her from.
"Hello," he kindly greeted her with that weird hoarse voice of his.
She nodded and returned the greeting.
"Shall I get Sherlock? I am sure he will like a case. Has been bored out of his wits, and mine too," John laughed as he reached for his phone.
The girl shook her head. "No need, I wanted to speak to you, actually."
"Oh?" John raised his eyebrow and sat down. "What's your name then?"
The girl threw him a sad smile. "Cassy. You… erm…"
John smiled at her with his blue eyes and was again struck by her resemblance of someone he knew so well. But whom?
He patted her knee comfortingly and stood up. "I'll make us some tea, you relax. I won't eat you, my dear," he winked.
Cassy nodded and shrugged out of her long blue coat.
When tea was ready, he brought the two cups to the living room and sat down in front of their unusual client. "What's wrong, Cassy?" he asked, looking at the beautiful girl over his teacup.
"Well, I just came here to say hi, actually!" she giggled nervously. "They said you were doing well!"
John nodded. "And I am. But who told you, and why? Sherlock and I are doing fine."
A dark cloud flew over her face but soon she smiled again. "Ah, gramps, yo-"
John's eyes widened. "You called me gramps?" He began to laugh. "I'm indeed old enough to be your father, but I'm not that old, dear."
Cassy looked sad. "You are my gramps."
John blinked. "Who's your grandmother then?" he asked, lightly, trying to make it sound like a joke to shush the nagging little voice, idea, knowledge, back to the back of his head.
Cassy grinned cheerfully. "You didn't marry to my grandmother."
John smiled too, glad he had been able to make his client feel at ease. She would need it for when Sherlock barged in again.
"You married granddad, surely you remember that?" she suddenly said.
John blinked again. Memories of tuxedos, dances, cakes, umbrellas and black curls and bright smiling eyes washed over him. He gasped and panted, tightening his grip on the arm rests.
Cassy patted his hand reassuringly.
"But… Sherlock never told me that," John cried. "He never tells me we are married."
Cassy's face fell even more. "Gramps, granddad Sherlock died two years ago, don't you remember?"
John shook his head, unable to utter a syllable.
Cassy bit her lip and got to her feet. "Let's get you to bed, Gramps. You will feel better in the morning."
John nodded absently. In a sharp moment he looked at Cassy and he really saw. He lifted his hand to cup her cheek, his fingers rested on her high cheekbones. "You look like him," he sighed happily. "He was so beautiful."
Cassy nodded. "I know." She led him upstairs and tucked him in bed. She pressed a kiss on his forehead and left the room.
John stared at the ceiling. I am John Watson, I married Sherlock. He died two years ago. I have a granddaughter. She is beautiful. Sherlock is beautiful.
He trashed around in his bed, unable to calm down. Sherlock was dead, certainly there has been made a mistake? Surely he would remember if that were really true?
He panted, and his doctor's mind told him he was hyperventilating. Suddenly he heard the violin music again, and he relaxed instantly.
They were all wrong, Sherlock was here, and they were together. Sherlock was an insufferable git but he loved him. Sherlock was alive.
Cassy closed the door behind her and wiped away a tear. When she looked up, she bumped into her nephew, Conrad. "How is uncle John?" he asked.
Cassy shrugged. "I have been stupid. I told him Sherlock had died and he suddenly went as white as a sheet. He really doesn't remember anything." Her voice shivered.
"I bring him his medicines every week, do you know whether he takes them or not?" Conrad asked, straightening his suit.
Cassy smiled up at him. He cocked his head and asked, "What's so funny?"
"You look so much like uncle Mycroft," she giggled. "You even have an umbrella. John mentioned you. He even thought you were uncle Mycroft."
Conrad sighed. "He lives in the past now, and he is happy there. We'd better let him live there, in peace."
…
The next morning, John woke up with a headache. He'd better phone the clinic to tell them he was getting down with something. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't make much noise with those experiments of him.
He got out of bed and walked down the stairs to the kitchen. He smiled at the mess he encountered there. When he walked to the living room, carrying a plate with toast and beans, he looked at the mantelpiece. Between the skull and the hunting knife, there stood two photo frames. The photo on the left looked old, picturing two handsome men, one tall and dark and mysterious, who looked down at the smaller man beside him. Both carried a happy smile around their mouths and both were dressed in tuxedos, a single rose tucked in their breast pockets. The other photo depicted the same men, only older. They stood on a bridge, looking at the camera. They smiled and held hands. Their hair was greying and they wore matching, golden rings around their fingers.
John lingered in front of the photos and gently touched the glass that covered the face of the tall, dark man in the long coat. The man was beautiful.
...
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