My third Sherlock FanFic :). Sadly I don't own Sherlock or any of the rights to BBC's fantastic shows. This is a one-shot. Post Reichenbach feels. I edited this fanfic ( it is based off of What John Didn't Say by moi) with Vash the Humanoid Sunshower's advice. Please go and look at Vash's work, it is MUCH better than mine. Vash wrote a very popular fanfic called Matchmaker, Matchmaker, it is fantastic and I suggest you read it. I cannot stress how good it is. If you enjoy my writing, I have a Merlin and Sherlock crossover that I would LOVE for you the check out. Cyndergoddessofmusic and I are going to write a "How to be a Sherlockian" a how to parody. That will be up with in the month (hopefully!) Please review!
John Watson's eyes snapped open when his alarm clock cheeped an annoying cheerful tune. He tensed up from his rigorous military training, and he had to consciously remind himself to not to slam his fist on the duct tape covered alarm clock again. How he managed to piece it back together in working order beats him. He stretched his arms trying and failing to get the ache out of his bones.
Then he sat on the edge of his bed hunched over. He rubbed his hand over his face and then yanked it through his hair, loosening the knots from tossing and turning in bed all night. Fatigue seemed to be his new best friend ever since Sherlock offed himself. The events at St. Bart's plagued him; whenever he closed his eyes they repay over and over. How many times had he seen Sherlock fall?
The cold seeped through his window, making John shiver.
He remembered the time Sherlock demanded that he was a subject in his experiment to test how long the body could go in a bowl of ice and the pain level based on the amount of time.
"Why can't you do it yourself?" John asked.
"I need someone with a higher pain threshold me," Was all John got as an answer. In the end, John gave in and rolled up his sleeve. Every thirty seconds Sherlock would have John rate his pain level on a scale of one to ten. He gave up at two minutes forty seconds because his hand was numb and he was going to be late to work.
"I know you can stay in the ice longer John, what is it that they say? Oh yes don't be a wussy," Sherlock snarled.
"Give me a break Sherlock! You know what? I'll complete it when I get home," John walked out the door and didn't give Sherlock time to respond.
As he reached for his cane to the left of him, he let out a sigh. His psychosomatic limp was back and with a vengeance. The cane was a necessity for him to stand. He used the cane to prop himself up, and he staggered over to his dresser and picked out a pair of slacks and a knitted jumper.
Rummaging around the kitchen, he found an old box of oats. Looking at the time, he realized that he is going to be late for work. He hurriedly stuffed his hands through the arms of his jacket and went as fast as he could to the door. His new land lady Mrs. Lee(who seemed angry almost all of the time) sat at her porch wrapped in a blanket with hot tea that smelled like urine and shouted at him in Chinese because of all the noise John made in his hurry. "Yeah, yeah Ni Hao to you too."
Four minutes later he's seated in the back of a cab that held a faint smell of fish and chips. "Um," he squinted the name tag, "Sam is it? Could you go the route that doesn't use Baker Street?" He didn't want to pass by his old flat. Their old flat.
"That's a big detour man. It'll be 5 pounds extra. That okay?"
"Yeah it's worth the money."
The cabbie looked into the mirror, "I recognize you, are you John Watson?" John nodded, "You're blog's really good, are you going to take any more cases?"
"Uh well seeing that my partner is dead, no I won't" The rest of the cab ride was awkwardly silent.
John buzzed himself into the hospital. The smell of disinfectant makes him recall the times Sherlock obviously scrubbed the kitchen clean because one of his experiments exploded. He also remembers the one time Sherlock made HIM clean the mess because apparently Sherlock was too busy researching things on HIS computer.
Miss. Heggins at the front desk waved to him and tried to make small talk. She is a young nurse, just out of college with bright blue eyes and bouncing yellow curls. If John had ever paid attention to her he probably would have said she was cute.
"How's the leg?"
"It could be better. Listen, I have a lot of patients, I should get to work,"
"That's what you say every day," Miss. Heggins mumbled. John pretended he didn't hear that, and he went to his small office. Sarah knocked on the door and leaned against the door frame.
"You're late," she said.
"I am sorry. I had the cabbie take the detour," John said with a snippy attitude.
"I had to take one of your patients," she sounded mildly irritated.
"Oh piss off!" John immediately regretted what he said.
"It's been six months you know. Not to be rude or anything, but you need to get on with your life" she reminded him.
John bashfully looked down at his papers and cleared his throat. "I apologize,"
"Yeah well it's a bit late for that," she started to leave, "Mr. Peters is waiting for you," and then she walked off.
John prepared himself for a long day full of runny noses, stomach aches, and "What's going on with my body?" or other uncomfortable questions. He put on his kindest face, and used his calm understanding "doctor" voice. He would talk slow and knit his eyebrows in fake concern. After seeing ten patients John had a pounding headache, but thankfully twelve' o clock had finally come. He returned to his office to ovoid his coworkers who bothered him with attempts to get him to go out to lunch. From his briefcase he pulled out a brown paper bag and two Advil's. The medicine went down easily with a gulp of water. For his lunch he had a plain looking ham sandwich. What that means is a piece of ham and two slices of bread. John devoured his unsatisfying lunch and chugged his water bottle.
Checking the clock on his phone he saw he still had forty- five minutes left. He's not supposed to have his cell on him during work hours, but he had no friends to text him anyway. He won't be interrupted by bothersome texts telling him to pick up some milk on his way home. Not that he would mind one of those texts at that moment.
Leaning back in his chair offered him a comfortable position, and his heavy lidded eyes closed. Sleep took over his body.
"Wake up," a voice said in his ear. For a second, just for a second John thinks it's him. "WAKE up," the voice said again. This time John recognized it as Sarah's voice. She had the most annoyed face, almost mad even. Actually, yes, indeed it is mad. Pain flared across his cheek: she slapped him!
"John, do I have to keep reminding you to wake up? You still have more people to see,"
John's eyed fly open as his brain registers what she is said. "Shit," He said.
"Yeah, shit is right. Get back to work before I fire you," Sarah warned.
"Bloody hell what time it is?"
Sarah was already gone. John groans because his lower back aches from taking a nap in the cheap office chair. Wait, no, his whole back hurt. He rolled around his neck, cracking it in the process. The phone reads 1:10. Shit! He overslept 10 minutes. He groaned again as he sits up straight. He could feel his spine snapping back into place. He stretched his arms up, arching his back.
The rest of his patients passed by in a blur. Today he managed to get puked on only once. A man came in with the flu, and he sicked all over John. It was okay, well it wasn't okay but he was used to it. The man apologized over and over, but John told him in his 'doctor' voice that it was fine and he would be right back once he changed. Sadly, that was the highlight of his day.
He clocked out at six, taking his plastic card and putting it in the designated slot. He got outside and hailed a cab. His phone started to buzz in his pocket, and John picked up the call, it's Lestrade.
"Hey-y John! Wanna grab a beer with me and some of the guys?"
"I'm going to have to say no, I have some- some stuff to do,"
"Damn it John! It's a Friday night for God's sake. One day I'm going to give up on you."
"It was Friday already?" John thought as he got in the cab. He put the phone away from his face and told the cabbie his address.
"Go ahead Greg," John said.
"I ask you to drinks every Friday. Come on, just this once!"
"Piss off Greg and forget about me. Forget about sad, little John Watson,"
"Stop being a martyr. I know what you're doing. You're pushing all of your friends away. Stop feeling sorry for yourself it's pathetic. I know it's only been six months-"John cut him off, "Stop. I've heard enough of that for one day thank you very much."
"You know what? I've had enough of you. Goodbye John." Lestrade hung up. It hurt John more than he expected it to. He learned from his time overseas to distance himself from people so he wouldn't be hurt when they die or leave him. Sherlock's death reminded him of his old life style. He forced himself to become emotionally detached, not that he had that many friends to begin with.
His thoughts about the phone conversation were put on hold when the cab stopped and the cabbie notified him that he is at the address. John paid and then struggled up the outer stair case to his flat. He reached for his keys and his hand bumped into the pair of from 221B. He always kept them there as a reminder of all the times he would find Sherlock on the couch in his mind palace. The memory stabs at his heart.
He opened the door before the first tears started to fall. He hurried to his bed, and he held his head in his hands. The memories hit him like a wave, each one making his sobs shake his body.
He saw Sherlock with his violin, his thin fingers expertly playing the difficult instrument.
Sherlock in his robe, acting like a child whining about being bored and how he needs a case.
Sherlock thinking with nicotine patches dotting his arms.
Sherlock the scientist, experimenting on thumbs.
Sherlock protecting Mrs. Hudson from the "Bad Guys".
Sherlock sliding the bomb across the floor of the pool where they met Moriarty.
Sherlock telling him his name and, "The address it 221B Baker Street," then he clicking his tongue and giving him a wink.
The pain John Watson felt is a million times worse than getting shot. It felt like… like a hand is slowly squeezing the life out of his heart.
He decided take away from the Chinese restaurant he and Sherlock frequently ordered from.
"Hello," John said into the phone. A cheerful man with a Chinese accent answered, "Oh, hello Mr. Watson! It had been a while! Will it be two fried rice, a general tao, and sweet and spicy?"
"Uh-uh no just one rice and the sweet and spicy,"
"Oh did you and your boyfriend run into problems?"
Ignoring the fact that he said 'boyfriend' John said, "Yeah the falling off of building sort, haven't you seen it on the news?"
There was a pause, "Oh." Pause," Yes I remember now how foolish of me, I am so sorry for your loss,"
John didn't answer.
"Your food will be at 221B Baker Street in a half hour,"
"Actually, I live at 2355 Gennings Boulevard now," John could hear the man shouting in Chinese and then his address.
"Okay problem fixed! Food will be there sooner, this address is closer," the man hung up.
By eight John was stuffing his face watching the telly. The familiar smell of the greasy and salty food made John feel a bit better, and he was watching a comedy show that made him laugh.
He cracked open his fortune cookie: his favorite part. Someone you love will return to you, whether it is a friend or a lover. His lucky numbers were 221-221-115-18. Sherlock made John memorize different ways their address could be coded, and this was one of them. John grabbed a piece of paper and worked it out. If you left the first three numbers it was the house number, 221. After that you count the numbers as letters. 2=B, 2=B, 1=A, 11=K, 5=E, 18= R. Or maybe John was just fishing for a chance that Sherlock was still alive and trying to communicate with him.
What was John going to do without his Sherlock? They became quite the pair, they were almost always together. Leaning over to reach his desk, John opened a drawer. His fingers brushed the edge of a piece of paper, and he pulled it out. He slid over closer to his lamp and put the tattered photograph up to his face. Being it this close to it allowed him to smell the accumulation of months of tears. It was a photo of Sherlock leaning over test tubes, his expression intense. John didn't know why he bothered to keep the picture; it had no sentimental value except for the fact that Sherlock was in it.
John realized that he had enough. What did he even live for? The nagging voice in the back of his head kept whispering to him that Sherlock was still alive. No one would miss him except Mrs. Hudson and his sister; he made sure he had no friends. Maybe, he was preparing himself for this. Mrs. Hudson would understand and his sister would too. They knew what he was going through. They might not have understood his pain, but they were there for him. Mrs. Hudson still had her Sunday bingo group and Harry patched things up with Clara. They would move on. They would be okay. For the first time in months John Watson smiled.
John made up his mind. He reached for his gun, and put it in his mouth. The cool metal touching the top of his pallet was uncomfortable, and the tangy smell made his nose wrinkle. "Wait a second," he thought, "This is the same way Moriarty died, I don't want to go out like him." He then had an idea, "I'll jump off St. Bart's, kind of poetic,"
Deciding not to linger, John grabbed his coat and cane. The cold metal of the staircase railing made him wish he had a pair of gloves.
The smell of winter brought memories of snow fights when he was a child. Even as a kid he had good aim. He was a constant target because of his height, but John would always get his opponent back. He remembers a girl named Marcy Noble. She was tough and she would always bully John. In the colder months she would don a red cap and matching mittens. As they grew older John began to develop feelings for her. When he held her hand he could feel the rough material that became more and more tattered every year. She refused to buy new ones because, 'They wouldn't be the same'.
Just like any one other than Sherlock wouldn't be the same.
A cab pulls up and John gets in.
"St. Bartholomew's please,"
"At this hour? Okay,"
The trip was pleasant enough. John got to see London which was nice.
"Could you pass by Baker Street?"
"That's an odd request but yes, I suppose I can,"
"Thank you,"
When the cab passed by Baker Street the breath hitched in John's throat.
"Are you okay back there? Is something wrong?"
"It's nothing,'
"Come on, you can tell me,"
"It's nothing," John said more forcefully. The cabbie left him alone for the rest of the drive.
"St. Bart's," the cabbie told him.
John felt like he drifted through the iron gates in a dreamlike state. His feet were moving on their own. Before he knew it he was mounting the stairs of the Old Pathology Building. On the top landing, there was an old, rusted door. It opened with an audible creak. He saw the roof Sherlock saw in his last moments. The same as John.
John didn't doubt Sherlock for a second. He was a proper genius. Even if Moriarty was a fake, it would take a brilliant mind to orchestrate the bombings, Carl Power's shoes and death, the kidnaped children, etc.
Moriarty's own death.
John sat on the ledge and looked over. Some poor chump was stumbling out of a bar, too wasted to walk straight. His comb- over, a poor attempt to hide hair loss, was greasy and unwashed. His white tee- shirt and jeans had stains. "At least I'm not that," John thought. But then, "I might as well be. I'm not any better. He's probably just another stuck going through the motions after someone close to him died,"
He shakily reached his hand into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. Sherlock never knew, or maybe he did and didn't say anything, that John recorded his violin 'concerts'.
The sorrowful melody matched John's mood.
In his last therapy session his therapist asked him what he wanted to say to Sherlock but didn't. He wouldn't answer her question. He wouldn't answer it for anyone but himself. "I love you Sherlock Holmes," he said to the wind whipping around his face. He hoped that somehow the message would get to him, and Sherlock would know that soon he would join him. In his other pocket was a letter addressed to Mrs. Hudson and his sister that he had prepared months before.
Dear Mrs. Hudson and Harry,
I do not feel that I need to explain myself. But I think that you both deserve a decent explanation. I think you know that I was in love with Sherlock. If you didn't then, well, I'm telling you now. The man who I loved is dead and gone. He will never come back to the living. All I can do now is join him. Sherlock had no religion and I do not think he believed in heaven or hell, but I do. Where ever he is now I will find him. Whether he is in heaven, hell, Nirvana, or simply floating in space I WILL unite with him.
Please forgive me,
John H. Watson
P.S I doubt you will want any of my possessions, but help yourself to anything you want.
The letter felt heavy in his pocket, like it would make him crumple to the ground from the weight of it.
It's time.
He struggled to stand on top of the ledge. He had to basically crawl up with his arms supporting him.
He took a deep breath.
Let it out.
Repeated.
He's ready.
Just at that moment, the music stopped and his phone buzzed. An unknown number was texting him. He reached down to pick up the phone next to his foot.
ONE NEW MESSAGE : The phone read.
John hurriedly pressed the button to show him the text. Whatever it was he would get it done quickly so he can get on with his death.
His heart skipped a beat and he held his breath. The message said:
I am alive. Come to the flat. SH
And then his phone buzzed again; a new text:
Come at once if convenient. SH
Then:
If in convenient come anyway. SH
Followed by:
John? Are you there? SH
John quickly typed his reply:
I will always be here. JW
PLEASE REVIEW! My MerLock story is posted and a quarter to a half done so check it out ;). It's a comedy so it won't be as depressing as this one.