A/N: This is for Prerana, my muse. I love you and I'm so lucky to have you in my life.
One morning, it starts raining and never quite stops.
Sherlock, perched in the wooden chair at his and John's small desk, draws back the curtains of the sitting room window and sighs wearily at the raindrops shattering against the glass. Today's experiment with dry soils will have to be postponed, it seems. He briefly considers composing instead, but his violin has been left dusty and disregarded for far too long and he fears he will no longer be able to produce something satisfying.
Music seems to evade his fingertips these days; symphonies do not alight upon his shoulders and stir within his subconscious as easily as they used to. His veins no longer sing with ballads and concertos. Instead, a single, monotonous drone thrums perpetually beneath his skin, whining and dull, like a flat note held for an eternity. It's driving him half mad because he can't think.
To make matters worse, he has no one to talk to, either. Days stretch on endlessly in unbroken silence, no noise pervading the flat save for what sparse tendrils of chatter and music waft in from the street. He spends his time staring idly at the window or lying on the couch, praying for that familiar voice to call his name, beckon him over, chastise his untidiness—anything is better than the thick, impenetrable quiet that surrounds him like smog.
The rain pours in sheets. Each individual drop crashes against the pane and cascades downward like a tear. Sherlock tap-tap-taps at the glass, steady as a metronome, and lets his mind wander to misty places with blurry edges.
Since Sherlock's return, John has ignored him. He doesn't seem angry or bitter, just distant.
While he was away, Sherlock wrote him a letter explaining everything, but John refuses to touch it. Now, the two of them drift past each other in the quiet flat like ghosts. The sitting room is as silent as a tomb. Everything feels cold and grey.
Bereft, Sherlock watches the rain.
Friday evening sees John sitting on the sofa watching telly, his eyes glossy with faraway thoughts. Sherlock watches him from the doorway for a long time, memorizing the way the glowing blue light looks against his skin, before hesitantly walking over and joining him.
"John," he says, clearing his throat. "I wish you would read the letter I wrote you. It's right there on the coffee table."
John's eyes do not leave the screen.
"It might explain a few things."
Silence.
"Then…perhaps I could read some to you," Sherlock offers, awkwardly reaching for the thin stack of papers. When John still doesn't acknowledge him, he freezes and retracts his hands and folds them awkwardly in his lap. "Or we could just talk?"
John picks up the remote and shuts off the telly with a sigh. "It's late," he mumbles under his breath, glancing at the clock on the mantle. "I should go to bed."
"John, please, if you would just listen…"
But John is already shuffling out of the room and down, into the dark, quiet refuge of Sherlock's bedroom.
John.
I've never cared for writing letters. I've found that it is the medium of poets and romantics, and as I myself am a logical man with no need for folly and sentiment, I have thus far abstained. However, as is always the case with you, I find myself making an exception. To put it plainly, I miss you. That is why I write this letter to you now—a letter which will certainly grow quite maudlin towards the end—because I can no longer stand the ache and longing that haunt my days. I miss the small things, like the tea and the jumpers and all of those ridiculous Bond movies you made me watch over and over. I miss the big things, like your cleverness and strength, and your kindness that somehow withstood two years of being my flat mate—a feat that is nothing short of impressive. I miss the smell of the flat and the smell of you. I miss the way you looked when you smiled at me. I miss the way you sounded when you laughed. I miss everything about you, John, and I would do absolutely anything to see you again.
"John, do you ever wonder about the weather?" Sherlock asks absently, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Drops of water leap from the clouds and plummet to earth, shattering against the pavement like liquid crystal. He looks back into the sitting room, where John is curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea in hand, staring at the fireplace.
"John?"
John sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. "Can't believe I have the flu," he mumbles thickly, gazing into the flames. "Sodding hell, the clinic's going to be understaffed again."
Sherlock looks back at the slick streets crowded with black umbrellas. "When will the rain stop? Why is it always so cold?"
"Maybe I should try to go in anyway," John muses. "Sarah's been picking up my slack all week, I can't ask her to take my patients again…"
Outside, the sky looks dark and foreboding. Cold wind tears through the trees, lightning rips through the grey ceiling of clouds like sharp teeth, and rain crashes down to earth in a flood.
Why are there so many black umbrellas?
John has a blue umbrella. Sherlock pictures John out there on the pavement, a tiny blue dot marching amidst a sea of obsidian.
"I'm so tired," John says, sounding as old as the moon. He puts his tea down and wraps the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "So bloody tired."
Sherlock closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the icy glass. The words slip from his mouth slowly, as if from a dream: "Why are you tired, John?"
"Maybe I will call Sarah after all…"
"Why are you tired, John?" he repeats. Condensation gathers on the glass before his lips "Talk to me."
"Christ, what was her number? It started with two-two-nine—no, two-two-three..."
"Tell me why you're tired, John. I want to help."
"Four-oh-seven…"
"Why won't it stop raining?"
"Or maybe it was four-oh-six…"
"Why won't you talk to me?"
"Yes, definitely four-oh-six."
When John leaves the room to speak with Sarah, Sherlock exhales and watches his breath form ghosts against the window pane. Black umbrellas march through the storm like soldiers. Rain drops patter against the glass. His heart aches for something unnamable.
Sherlock closes his eyes and feels a great burden settle on his shoulders. "I'm tired, too."
I smiled the other day when I remembered the year you tried to decorate the flat for Christmas. Remember, we had that big row about the practicality of candy canes? Then you told me I was being a git and forced me to help you hang tinsel, because you couldn't reach the top of the bookcase and the frames over the mantle. The flat didn't stop smelling like cinnamon and gingerbread for weeks, but I didn't mind it. I remember we drank tea together on the couch that night. Your knee was touching mine and the fireplace made the whole room glow. When you told me happy Christmas, you were smiling and your eyes were bluer than I've ever seen them. At midnight, you leaned against my shoulder and asked me what my Christmas wish was.
I never told you this, John, but it was you.
Sometimes, John cries for no reason. Today, he's sitting in Sherlock's chair—which Sherlock finds quite odd, since John's own chair is only three feet away—looking at a photograph of the two of them from one of their first cases. In black and white ink, they stand shoulder to shoulder, John smiling amenably for the camera while Sherlock looks away in disinterest, the two of them surrounded by adoring, amazed onlookers.
Sherlock remembers this as a happy moment in time, so he doesn't understand why John's shoulders begin to shake and tears start to gather in his eyes.
Confused, Sherlock sits across from John and asks, "Why are you crying?"
Instead of replying, John reaches into the bin for another photograph. This one was taken about a year and a half ago, right after they solved the case of the H.O.U.N.D—or, as John's blog so cleverly dubbed it, The Hounds of Baskerville. John was angry at him that day for experimenting on him and had only agreed to the brief photo op out of good manners. In the picture, Sherlock beams proudly with his chin high and his eyes bright, while John stares drily at the camera, wholly unamused save for the sardonic tilt of his mouth.
"I was terrible that day," Sherlock says, half to himself and half to John. "I said I didn't have friends, but I didn't mean it." He looks up at John with his brow creased. "You know I didn't mean it, don't you, John?"
"Smile, you git," John tells the paper, bitterly running his thumb over the image of his own face. "Things are so good, don't you get it? Don't you see it?"
Sherlock frowns. "Things were good? But you were furious with me."
"Don't you bloody get it?" John says again, a sob choking his voice. "Are you that sodding thick? He's right there! He's right bloody there, you have no right to be upset. You have no right to look angry. He's standing right next to you, you bloody idiot!" John cries, pressing his thumb so hard against the paper that he ends up tearing a hole in it. Disgusted, he casts it aside and covers his face with his hands. "I hate you."
"You hate me?" Sherlock feels the words like a punch in the chest.
"I hate you," John says again, but this time Sherlock realizes that he's saying it to the photograph of himself. "You bloody useless fool. I hate you. Don't you realize how lucky you are? Smile. You have no right to do anything but smile."
"John, why are you so upset? I don't understand, please help me understand," Sherlock begs. A deep, consuming ache spreads throughout his chest at the sight of John's suffering. "Talk to me, John. Tell me how I can help. Please."
But John just keeps crying, his hunched back rising and falling in time with his wretched sobs.
"John?" Sherlock tries again, small and helpless. "John, please…"
"I'm so tired of feeling like this," John says hoarsely. "I'm just so tired."
Sherlock no longer knows what to say, so he just sits there and watches John fall apart, helpless to stop it. Later, once John has retired to Sherlock's bedroom and the evening glow has melted into night, Sherlock peers out the window and realizes it's still storming.
My days and nights are filled with an implacable, crushing longing. My dreams are the only place I can see you, so I cherish them even when they bend and twist into nightmares. I am haunted by the way you looked when you watched me fall. I will never unsee the shattered emptiness in your eyes as they carried me away. I hear your broken voice shouting my name every waking moment. Even in my dreams, I can feel your calloused palm go slack against mine, defeated and heartbroken beyond repair. In my dreams, I die over and over and over, and you watch me each time, helpless and confused and angry, lost in a crowd of doctors and nurses and shocked onlookers. I know what I've done to you, John, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
I told you I was fake. I told you it was all a trick.
There is nothing I can ever do or say to express how wretched it felt to lie to you.
John starts sleeping in his own bedroom again, but he still goes into Sherlock's room every day to sit for a while and stare at the things on his nightstand.
"Why do you do this, John?" Sherlock asks, sitting beside John on the bed. "You never used to come in here before."
John runs his thumb along the edge of Sherlock's alarm clock and smiles. "You never shut up about how important dust was, yet you wiped down everything in this sodding room." He shakes his head and laughs softly. "You great hypocrite."
Sherlock scowls at the insinuation. "I'm not a hypocrite, John. Nothing in this room was potential evidence, so I cleaned up a bit. I'm actually quite surprised you aren't pleased by that, since you always used to nag about how untidy I am."
"And look at this, you had five different alarms set. Three A.M., eight-fourteen A.M., nine-thirty P.M., midnight, and noon. I wonder why that was."
"For experiments, of course. The timing had to be just right," Sherlock answers readily. "I can't quite remember what the exact experiments were, but I'm sure they were important."
"On the bottom you wrote the date you purchased it," John continues with a crooked smile, staring at the note scrawled on the base of the clock. "Don't know why, but I'm sure you had a reason. Here it says you bought this exactly three and a half years ago. That's right around the time we met, actually."
"It is," Sherlock agrees, thinking back. "Yes, I purchased it precisely two weeks before you and I met in the lab that day."
John smile wavers suddenly and that familiar look of sadness washes over his features once more. Desolate, John sets down the clock.
"Why, Sherlock?"
Sherlock frowns. "Why what?"
John covers his face with his palms and doesn't say anything for a while.
"John, what is it? Tell me. Please."
Silence.
"John, I want to help. I wish you would talk to me."
Nothing.
"I'm so tired, Sherlock," John says without removing his hands. His voice trembles. "I'm tired and I'm lonely and most days I hate getting up in the morning."
"John—"
"I just want to fall asleep and never wake up."
A lump forms in Sherlock's throat. "John, please, I—"
"I need to get out of here. I need to go," John says thickly, standing up and pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. The beginnings of a sob distort his voice. "I can't be in here right now. It's not helping like I thought it would."
Confused, Sherlock watches John rush out of his bedroom and disappear down the hall.
I called you and hung up more times than I can count. For a while, I convinced myself that if I got to hear your voice—just for one second, just for one word—I would be content. I would finally be able to put you out of my mind.
I was wrong.
Because at 2 A.M. on a Tuesday night, I called you from a payphone in Germany, hoping to get that one morsel of contact and then move on; instead, I was ruined. When you answered and said 'hello?' it took every ounce of willpower to stop myself from saying your name. I called you three more times that week, then four more in France. It became a game: a terrible, torturous game wherein I reveled in your voice, only to have it cruelly snatched away a moment later.
-Hello?
-Is anyone there?
-Who is this?
-Who keeps calling?
I would've done anything to answer those questions for you, John. Anything.
Sherlock no longer sleeps. Has he ever slept? He can no longer remember.
He feels caged. He wonders if he's going mad. The feeling of being trapped makes him want to do something reckless and terrible, just for the sake of breaking up the dreadful numbness that is crawling over his skin like cockroaches. He wants to shoot a loaded gun at the wall and light the couch cushions on fire. He wants to grab a fistful of cigarettes and smoke them all at once. He wants to leap out the window with nothing but his legs to break his fall. He wants to laugh and cry and drink wine and walk off the edge of the earth. He wants to stalk up to a complete stranger and steal their wallet or punch them in the face or tell them his biggest secret, because the world around him keeps growing smaller and he'll make whatever big gesture he has to in order to keep the walls from shrinking in.
The storm never stops. Lightning cuts through the great masses of clouds like claws, violent winds shove the trees into diagonal lines, and thunder explodes from the heavens in huge frightening bellows.
Restless, Sherlock leans his forehead against the cold sitting room window and drowns in nature's uproar.
They're in the sitting room and John is drinking tea.
"I miss you," John says aloud, with no preamble. Sherlock looks away from the rain-spattered window and stares at him.
"Me?"
John's eyes are settled somewhere middle distance. "I keep thinking that you're here but…" He shakes his head. He clenches his left hand at his side. "Maybe I should go see you."
"John, I'm right here."
"I think I'm ready."
"Ready for what?"
John rises from the sofa and reaches for his coat. "I need to do this."
…
Sherlock doesn't understand where they're going or what John is on about, but he plays along with the strange game and follows him out of the flat, past the deli and the book store and the cafe. He's surprised when they finally stop in front of a flower shop.
"We're buying flowers?" Sherlock asks, trailing after John as he pushes open the front door. The bell chimes as they enter and the woman at the front smiles.
"How can I help you, sir?"
"I'm looking for flowers for my best friend," John says, glancing around the shop with cagey eyes. His hands fidget nervously inside his pockets.
"Anything in particular?"
"He liked bees, so maybe a flower that attracts them? I don't know."
Sherlock frowns and joins John at the counter. "Why are you buying me flowers?"
"What's the occasion?" she questions conversationally, turning to pluck a bouquet from their shelves.
"I'm, um," John clenches his jaw, physically steeling himself to respond. "I'm about to do something I've been avoiding for ages. I'm a bit nervous."
Her eyes soften in understanding and she pointedly doesn't linger on the subject. "We have a lovely selection of sunflower bouquets. Not only do they attract bees, but they also symbolize longevity. Some cultures believe they represent life, as well."
"Longevity," John repeats. "That means forever, doesn't it?"
She nods. "It does."
"I'll take them."
…
I've been waiting to tell you this for ages, John. I love you more than anything in this world.
…
They're standing in a cemetery in front of a grave and Sherlock doesn't understand.
"Hi," John says with a small smile. His eyes, soft with affection and longing, are trained on the tombstone before them. "I've missed you so, so much."
John places the bouquet on the ground and the sunflowers spill forth in bright yellow abundance. When Sherlock reads the name engraved in stone, all the pieces fall together. The silence, the blurriness, the dazed numbness-it all makes sense.
John laughs thickly, his eyes glossy with tears. He places a hand on top of the grave. "It's been a while, Sherlock."
…
I've arranged for my brother to send you this letter in the event of my death.
I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry for putting you through hell and tearing your life into shreds. I'm sorry for being harsh and unkind. I'm sorry for not cherishing you as you ought to have been cherished. My own selfishness made me hold you close and refuse to let go, even though I knew in the end I would hurt you. I suppose it is simply in my nature to be cruel, even when I am endeavoring to be the opposite. Life has not been kind to me, John, but you have, and for me that is enough. You've given me more than I could possibly ask for. You've made a man out of a machine. You've saved me, John Watson, and that is a gift that will never be forgotten.
You deserve oceans more than you've been given, and I wish only that I were still around to show that to you.
I love you.
SH
...
John carefully folds the letter into fourths, then puts it in his pocket.
Finally, John is looking right at him. His eyes are mournful but bright, like the burning blue core of a flame. All around them, rain pours down in sheets, splattering in the mud and pushing John's hair flat on his head, but it no longer feels violent. Instead it feels cleansing. Drops of water cling to John's pale eyelashes and drip from the edge of his nose like tears
"I love you, too, Sherlock," John says with a crooked smile. He kisses his fingertips and presses them to the cool surface of the grave. "I always will."
And at last, with the storm softening around them like a sigh, Sherlock curls up against his headstone and rests.
A/N: Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments, darlings!
xoxo JLW