There he was, standing on a bridge. He didn't really know what he was doing. He'd had a bit much to drink, he supposed. For some reason, the thought made him laugh out loud, giggling at the edge of a bridge above a dark Thames. He stood alone, staring over at the water. There was no one else there. No one but him, alone. No sound.
No one had even realised he'd left the pub. He laughed again, finding the fact that no one had noticed his absence hilarious.
Of course, Sherlock would have noticed. But Sherlock wasn't there any more, was he? Sherlock...Sherlock wouldn't come.
Or would he? Didn't they say that when you die, you see people you used to know?
If he stepped off the bridge, would Sherlock guide him home?
I'm standing on a bridge
I'm waiting in the dark
I thought that you'd be here by now
There's nothing but the rain
No footsteps on the ground
I'm listening but there's no sound
Isn't anyone trying to find me?
Won't somebody come take me home?
He shivered standing there, above the river. The famous London river. He'd heard a song about it once. London River, oh the London River, all the love I had I'll give her, London river oh the London river, that's the river for me... The perfect river, then. The one you give your love too. The river for him. Rivers. Dark and mysterious, who knew what was in the depths? He laughed hysterically. Just like Sherlock, no one knew.
There was nothing for him to do any more. Lestrade had tried to see if he wanted to help with some cases, but they both knew he was nothing compared to Sherlock. Even Mycroft had dropped by once, offering him a way to keep busy. He'd declined. It was Mycroft's fault, wasn't it? All his fault.
He thought of the cases they'd shared, the stories he'd written up on his blog. A study in Pink, The Blind Banker, Hound of the Baskervilles. Sherlock had been a rude, arrogant arse, but he hadn't been pretending. None of it had been a lie.
After Sherlock's fall, reporters had asked him. "Was he a fake? Did you know? Were you an accomplice?" No comment. No comment. That's what he'd said at first. Eventually, he'd exploded. Said something about how stupid they all were. How they saw, but didn't observe anything. About how they should have realised.
Sherlock might even have been proud. He'd pointed out facts about them, tried to use Sherlock's skills. He'd learnt enough to make them leave him alone after that. He'd even raised some doubts about Sherlock being a fake. After all, if he'd worked out a few things...not much, but something.
What was he supposed to do now? There was nothing. He just wanted Sherlock. Sherlock, to come out of nowhere, grab his hand and take him to another crime scene, another wonderful, mad, crazy, dangerous adventure that no one would believe. It was true, he didn't know everything about Sherlock. He wasn't exactly open, he wasn't trusting. But he'd been John's best friend. He always would be.
It's a damn cold night
Trying to figure out this life
Won't you take me by the hand?
Take me somewhere new
I don't know who you are
But I... I'm with you
I'm with you
He glanced around him. Where was he, anyway? He started walking down the side of the Thames, searching for something remembered, something relating to him. He searched the faces of the people going by. No one he recognised, no one who would stop him. He almost felt disappointed, even more empty. He hated being alone.
That was part of why he'd moved in with Sherlock, wasn't it? He wanted company, friendship and excitement. That was exactly what Sherlock had provided. He hadn't been the ideal flat partner, no. Refused to do the shopping, refused to do anything... but oh, he'd give anything now to hear Sherlock refuse. To see Sherlock shooting the wall, ,with the simple, irritating explanation of "I'm bored!"
"Are you bored now, Sherlock?" He asked quietly, staring into the crowd walking by. "Was it dull? Was everything dull, too dull for you?" There was no reply, of course. To be honest, he hadn't expected one.
Where was he, anyway? He'd been here before, with Sherlock, he thought, but maybe not. He was near the Thames-on the banks of the Thames. But where? He had no idea. He wasn't even sure where he'd come from. Not important. Irrelevant. Delete it, maybe.
I'm looking for a place
I'm searching for a face
Is anybody here I know
'Cause nothing's going right
And everything's a mess
And no one likes to be alone
No one had followed him out. Lestrade had invited him out for a drink with others from Scotland yard, but he'd slipped away. They'd all bought him a drink. He'd felt their pity. "He was fooled most," They'd whispered. "He won't even believe it now." He hated it, hated their false sympathy, the way they'd nod along when he spoke of Sherlock's innocence and then mocked his words behind his back, calling him a freak now, the freak who wouldn't listen, the freak who wouldn't forget, the freak who was too loyal.
No one was coming. It had been Donovan who'd broken his façade, who'd pushed him out.
"I told you, didn't I?" She'd said, rolling her eyes as he insisted that he was right. "He was a psychopath."
Before he'd even realised what he was doing, Donovan was bleeding, a broken nose.
"Shut. UP. Donovan!" It was the first show of emotion they'd seen from him for a while, but she didn't seem to care. She just stared at him, surprised. Hadn't expected the harmless, stupid, idiotic doctor to retaliate.
No one knew him. No one but Sherlock. He'd been right- it was a waste to care. No one cared about him, after all. What was the point? If you cared about someone, all they did was cause you pain. And they didn't even care in return. Not enough to save you, to stop you.
Not enough.
Isn't anyone trying to find me?
Won't somebody come take me home?
He stepped forward, stepped closer to the edge of the bridge. Who'd stop him? As it grew later still, less people were around, and those who were didn't pay attention to the lone man on the edge of the bridge, staring into the Thames. He took a deep breath.
Sherlock. Was there something after it all, could there be? Was that against logic? He wondered what the consulting detective had deduced about it, but he'd never asked. Never thought to, despite it all. Never even thought to ask. He shook his head, a half hearted, exasperated burst of laughter leaving him. One last laugh.
He stepped forward again. Put a foot on the first bit of the small railing. It was barely a railing, to be honest. He was drunk, he wouldn't live, would he? Not if he didn't even try. Not if he hit something, and he probably would.
He wondered if this was what It was like, to be crazy. He'd never wanted to die-not really. Even in the worst moments in Afghanistan, he'd wanted to live. Wanted to recover, have a life again. But there wasn't one. Not after this.
Oh why is everything so confusing
Maybe I'm just out of my mind
One more step. Climb over. He stopped at the top, sitting, waiting. Just a drop now. A fall. He'd hit the water and sink, hopefully. He wasn't going to try and stay afloat. He leant forward, ready to fall.
And someone grabbed his hand, pulling him back.
"No." The voice barely registered at first. He stumbled, falling over as he was pulled back over the railing, back onto the bridge, to safety. To suffering.
"Why?" He slurred, blurry eyed, staring up. A mess of black curls and defined cheekbones hovered above him.
"John." The voice was quietly, almost calmly concerned, as always. "Don't do this. Please."
"Why you here? You're not...you're dead." He forced out somehow, frowning. Something was odd about this. Was someone dead not meant to be here? He winced. His head hurt. "Not...no...le'e me alone." He slurred, closing his eyes against the sight. "Not real."
"John, please." He opened his eyes again, frowning, blinking. It couldn't be real, could it?
The person who looked like a ghost took hold of him. "I'll take you back." He said, something John couldn't recognise in his voice. Not quite...caring? No. He didn't know. Couldn't think. As the man lifted him, he retched, sick leaving his mouth.
Urgh. He knew he'd had a bit too much to drink.
Won't you take me by the hand?
Take me somewhere new
I don't know who you are
But I... I'm with you
I'm with you
Sherlock took his hand, leading him away from the bridge. John didn't pay attention, staring confused at Sherlock. How could Sherlock be here? He guessed it had something to do with the fact he was drunk. Not real, then. But leading him somewhere, anyway. Maybe taking him to be dead, too. That'd be good.
He didn't pay attention to where they were going. When Sherlock stopped, he finally took a look around them. It was oddly familiar...ah, Baker Street. He stared at the door in front of him. Baker Street. Why was he here? He hadn't stayed here since Sherlock...but Sherlock was here, now, so it must be alright to go there. If he was avoiding it because Sherlock was gone, then he didn't need to any more.
"John. Promise me you won't do anything like that again. That you won't try to do that."
He blinked, staring up blearily into his friend's eyes. Sherlock shook him, hard. "Promise me, John! Promise me!"
"...promise..." He said, sleepily. "Promise. Sherlock?"
"...Yes?" Sherlock's voice seemed uncertain, hesitant, though John wasn't sure why. He felt really, really tired suddenly. He leant against Sherlock, his eyes closing.
"Don't be dead..."
Sherlock stood frozen, with Dr. John Watson leaning against him, drunk and asleep. He probably wouldn't even remember any of the events. Sherlock had watched, and with the amount of alcohol John had imbibed-well, he wasn't surprised that he'd thrown up.
Don't be dead...
"I'm sorry, John." He whispered. Pain was clear in his voice, but there was no one to hear it, bar the sleeping ex-flatmate.
Carefully, he moved the man, sitting him down on the front step of 221b, leaning him against the door.
John shivered, clearly cold, moving in a way to attempt to conserve heat. Without letting himself think about consequences, Sherlock took off his coat, laying it over John. He wouldn't realise it was him. The coat wasn't his normal style-he lived in a constant disguise now. Even when it was so dark he dared to go out with his normal face and hair, he wore different clothes.
He started to rise, to leave John, but stopped. Hesitantly, he leant down again, and softly kissed John's forehead.
"Goodbye, John." He whispered. He stood up, watched the man sleep for a few moments, before turning and walking away.
Take me by the hand,
Take me somewhere new.
I don't know who you are,
But I...I'm with you...
I'm with you...
When Mrs Hudson opened the door in the morning, she was surprised to see the Doctor, asleep, with a dirty coat covering him. She woke him, taking him inside. He didn't speak at first, staring numbly around, and wincing at noises, taking the aspirin she offered. She understood that, at least. It didn't need Sherlock to deduce he'd been drinking.
When he eventually spoke, he only said four words. "I dreamt about him." He said quietly.
She clucked her teeth slightly, and touched his shoulder in comfort. "I know." She replied.
John didn't speak again for a while, finishing his tea. Once he'd drunk it, he thanked her, and let her lead him to his bedroom. He stayed in Baker Street again after that.
And, even though he didn't remember it, he kept his promise.
Take me by the hand,
Take me somewhere new.
I don't know who you are,
But I...I'm with you...
I'm with you...
A/N: Okay, first Sherlock fanfic complete! So, I watched The Reichenbach Fall earlier for the first time...just recently became a fan of Sherlock. THE FEELS! Noooo... argh, I really want it to be season 3. Especially because the story when he comes back is one of my favourite Sherlock Holmes stories.
The song used is 'I'm with you' by Avril Lavigne, which I used because of reasons. So yeah. John gets drunk, is going to die, and Sherlock saves him, and takes him home. Unfortunately, John does not remember/thinks its a dream. Darn. :'(
Please tell me what you think? Thanks for reading!