Hello to everyone!
Some time ago, I stumbled across a post somewhere on the internet, a post that said: His Last Vow AU where Sherlock dies from the shot Mary fired at him and John finds out after their daughter is born. And I just thought: Well...
This was originally intended to be a one-shot, but it got out of hand and definitely too long to leave it in one piece, which is why I decided to split it up into several parts.
Warnings: Major character death - basically "His Last Vow" gone wrong. Not much happiness to be found here in general - it is, after all, a story of John without Sherlock.
I own neither the characters I'm toying with nor anything else.
Enjoy.
Ruins in a World that Shattered
Part 1
John doesn't have any memory of how long it has been. Dread has settled into his stomach, a cold, tight ball weighing heavily, into his brain, into his heart, dread that this may be it. The pile of horror and unadultered fear doesn't disappear when paramedics rush out of the ambulance, shoving the stretcher along, when they reach A&E, when John is told firmly to wait outside, to take a seat in one of the chairs.
It doesn't diminish when he is indeed left behind, dark red blood still crusting his fingers, drying there, when he is left to wait, unable to do anything at all.
Everything is blurring, in his eyes, in his mind, the corridor, other people passing by, doctors, nurses, patients, time.
Time.
And yet he realises, every process in him seeming to cease, that too little time has passed when someone, still in blue scrubs, straight from the operating theatre, approaches him, slowly, as if not sure he's the one the man is looking for.
John leaps to his feet, unaware of the thumping of his heart in his throat, the light-headedness in his entire body, the swimming of the room around him.
Too little time.
One look is enough.
"No," he croaks, stumbling backwards as if thrown back by an invisible force, by a force making the lump in his stomach and his heart and his throat explode, leaking acid everywhere, burning him from the inside. "No," he repeats, as if the word on its own had any chance of changing what is, now, unchangeable.
"I'm sorry-" The doctor's mouth forms words, words which reach John's ears belatedly. Much later, weeks, months later, he will wonder how exactly that man has known why to approach him of all people, that he is the one about to lose his best friend.
"No," John mumbles again, shaking his head, his knees buckling beneath him. "No, that can't… it… you…"
"I'm sorry," the man repeats, nodding slowly. "There was nothing we could do."
His body forces John to sit down, John forces his ears to listen.
"He lost too much blood and coded before we could even try to stop the bleeding," the man tells John, his eyes a watery dark colour.
Everything John can do in that moment is to concentrate on sucking in air, on performing perfectly normal tasks.
Breathing. Breathing is boring, Sherlock's voice says in his head.
"…attempts of resuscitation… failed… pronounce… sorry…"
No, is the only thought John can still produce. No, it can't be true, it can't be. Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock. Just yet another one of his bloody tricks. No, it can't be.
The graveness in the doctor's voice and the crusted blood on John's fingers tell him otherwise.
~ O ~
His hands are clenched into tight fists, his jaw set, his walking as steady as he can manage when he is finally allowed to see Sherlock.
"Could you… just…," he croaks, and although he himself doesn't even know how he has intended to go on, the doctor showing him the way nods and turns around, leaving him alone, alone in a cold, empty room.
John doesn't know where he is, what kind of room this is, all he needs to know is that it's not a proper hospital room, there's no equipment to monitor vitals, to watch over a patient's condition, to keep someone alive. It's not.
Sherlock doesn't have any right to be here, that thought keeps circling in John's mind as he's stepping closer, very slowly, very carefully. He doesn't have any right.
Sherlock's eyes are closed, this time, his lids as colourless as the rest of his face, pallid, waxen. Colourless. Void of all colour.
He doesn't move, of course he doesn't, chest not rising and falling, simply lies completely still, flat on his back, so utterly… white.
White.
"You idiot," John chokes, stumbling closer. Resting a hand on Sherlock's lax cheek, his cooling skin. "Stop pretending. Stop that… right now. Come on, you cock, just stop it."
The words so familiar, so painfully familiar, because he has said them before, more than three years ago. This time, however, the blood sticking to his fingers, accusingly, proves him wrong, tells him that it's… it's…
"Sherlock!" he croaks, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's cheek, sending his limp head lolling to its right side.
Self-delusion, that's what it is, and yet John can't stop himself. "Wake up now," he orders, blinking hard to keep his eyes dry. "Open your eyes, come on. Now, Sherlock!"
He doesn't succeed, not in not dripping tears to Sherlock's unbearably still face, not in waking him up. Of course not.
John knows exactly what he would find if he pressed two fingers to Sherlock's neck, or to his wrist, or rested a hand over his unmoving chest.
Nothing, no breathing, no pulse, no heartbeat.
Blood loss. Cardiac arrest. Pronounced dead.
The bullet hole stares accusingly at John, high in Sherlock's chest, its edges frazzled, not oozing blood anymore, simply… dead.
"Sherlock," he whispers again, shaking Sherlock's lolling head, a futile attempt to rise him, to make him come back.
He doesn't react, doesn't breathe, just remains motionless.
John's world crumbles.
~ O ~
He will never forget how exactly Sherlock has looked in this empty room, stretched out there, ready to be taken down to the morgue.
It is a sight burned into his very brain, saved there forever, never letting go of him.
Not moving, of course, utterly still. Void of all blood, of all healthy complexion. Unnaturally slack, limp, cooling down. The bullet wound, of course, a hole ripped through his best friend's torso, causing massive internal bleeding, enough bleeding to kill him, in the end. Tiny little pricks, in his throat, the crook of both elbows, IVs, having been attached to his body, blood transfusion, sedative, medication, removed after… after.
Thin, emaciated, helpless. Helpless. In need of help, of being rescued, for once, by medical professionals, unable to do their job due to too much blood loss.
His hair slicked back, away from his forehead, leaving more of his face to be… exceedingly colourless.
It's worse than the last time, maybe, with his eyes closed, no blood anywhere, because it seems… less real. Less real. And yet it is, very much so.
One simple shot, in the liver, hitting the inferior vena cava, killing his best friend. That's all it takes.
That's all it takes.
~ O ~
John doesn't remember exactly how he ends up in his own living-room, Mary's sobbing to be heard from the kitchen, Greg pacing in front of him, running his hands through his hair over and over again.
He makes his statement, tells Greg what has happened, about their break-in, about Janine, their bridesmaid, about Magnussen, about Sherlock running off, to the floor above that one, of how John has stayed with Janine, Sherlock not returning, John going after him, only to find him splayed out on the floor, on his back, Magnussen a few metres away, mumbling something about… "shot".
Greg asks him, of course, if he has any idea who could have done it, who could have had an interest in shooting Sherlock, in killing him, and John doesn't have an answer for him.
Not that he has thought about the question before, not that he has thought about anything, but Greg is right: Who would have, in fact, had any interest in killing Sherlock? Why shoot him, and only knock Magnussen out? Why not kill Magnussen, the man who blackmails people for a living, as far as John has understood, why Sherlock?
Why Sherlock?
He doesn't think he will ever understand.
~ O ~
He doesn't cry.
What for? What good will it do?
He can't bring himself to cry, maybe. Not… not again. Not a second time. He feels… numb, utterly numb, dead inside.
Mary is doing enough of weeping for both of them. Her eyes are swollen, constantly, red-rimmed, raw, her skin blotchy and her complexion pale.
John doesn't sleep the first night, simply lies in his bed, next to his wife, still sobbing quietly, and can't get rid of what he has seen. What has happened. Can't let Sherlock go. Can't… just can't.
Mary is sobbing again the very next night, the sounds muffled by her pillows, and John suddenly feels as if he can't take it anymore. Any of that.
His best friend, dead, shot, killed, murdered, his wife, lying in their bed, crying, weeping, inconsolable. He himself, simply… numb.
Mary's sobbing ceases for a moment when he slowly extends a hand towards, about to pull her into a hug, to hold her close, to keep her safe, at least, if not Sherlock. Ceases, and then, with a sudden jolt, she turns her back towards him, freezing upon his touch, and only continues weeping quietly.
John doesn't sleep that night, either.
~ O ~
The very next morning, Mary apologises, her voice hoarse, her eyes still swollen. "I'm so sorry, John," she mumbles, avoiding his gaze. "It's just… I… I can't believe…"
When he wraps his arms around her this time, she doesn't resist, but rests her head on his shoulder, her warm breath tingling his neck.
At least, he forces himself to think in that moment, he's still got Mary.
~ O ~
"Why," she clears her throat, gripping her mug more tightly. "Why exactly did he…"
They have not talked about it, John thinks, his memory about how he has called Mary hazy at best, have not talked about why Sherlock isn't ringing their door bell in that very moment, insisting on John to accompany him to solve a case.
"He lost too much blood," he tells Mary as steadily as he is able to, the fingers of his left hand cramping into the fabric of his trousers. "It just… He was bleeding out, and it took too long to…"
"But," Mary begins again, the mug in her hands trembling as she slowly lifts it towards her mouth to take a sip, "but did it hit something… vital?"
John swallows, closing his eyes for a moment. He is distantly aware of the stabbing pain in his heart, distantly, as if it were a pure memory, not reality. Numb, he is so… numb.
"I mean… not his heart, or lungs, or…" Mary's voice is shaking now, too, just as her hands, a bit of tea gushing out, dripping to the floor. None of them gets up to retrieve a cloth to wipe it dry again.
"No," John answers, truthfully. Not Sherlock's heart, no. His own, yes. "It hit his liver and…"
"But," Mary interrupts him again, tears once more glistening in her eyes, "that wouldn't have killed him, would it? Not so quickly, I mean, he would have made it to a hospital, and they would have stopped the bleeding, and…"
Would have, yes. Would have.
"It also hit his inferior vena cava," John adds, remembering the bullet hole ripped through Sherlock. "If the shot had been placed more to his right, he might have…"
John does never finish the sentence, unable to, his throat, his airway, everything, suddenly blocked by an impenetrable lump, threatening to suffocate him.
If the shot had been placed more to Sherlock's right, missing the IVC, causing less bleeding, he might have survived. John would be sitting in a hospital right now, furious at Sherlock for almost dying, furious and impossibly relieved and without any knowledge of how lucky he had been, instead of sitting here, at home, numb, with his wife, grieving for their best friend.
He doesn't need to finish the sentence, because Mary seems to understand. "Oh my God," she whispers, dropping her mug, all colour draining from her face. "Oh my God."
She has reached their kitchen before John can even react, retching into the sink, throwing up whatever she has had for breakfast this morning.
When she is done, John rubbing her back comfortingly, she presses herself against him, in the kitchen, and John simply holds his pregnant wife while she is crying, too drained himself to produce another single tear.
~ O ~
The funeral is horrible.
Everyone has come, it seems, every single person who has ever met Sherlock.
John and Mary, of course. Greg. Molly, clinging to Greg, traces of tears visible in her face. Mrs Hudson, sobbing into Greg's other shoulder, fussing over John as soon as she locks eyes on him.
Sherlock's parents, of course, his mother's face an odd mixture between heartbroken and livid, his father silent and outwardly calm, never letting go of his wife, even giving John a warm, but sad, very sad, smile.
Mycroft, of course, in a black suit, with a black tie, a black waistcoat, a black umbrella. He appears neutral, perfectly composed, if one doesn't look into his eyes.
"You will find him," John wants to make sure once everyone else is out of earshot for a moment. "You will find him, won't you? The one who did this, who…" His voice breaks, can't say the words. Can't say: the one who killed Sherlock. "You'll find him, and you won't let him get away, will you?" he croaks, gritting his teeth.
The look Mycroft gives him at that is long and stern. "I will, I assure you. I will," he replies, and nothing more.
It's enough for John.
Then there are clients, people who have met Sherlock only once, people he has helped. Henry Knight, for instance, the only one whose name John can remember. Major Sholto, John's old commanding officer, whose very life has been saved by Sherlock.
Janine. Even John's own sister, Harry, who has only met Sherlock once.
Donovan, Anderson, others they have worked with.
Journalists are looming outside, keen on the big scoop, keen on interviews, on maybe taking a final picture of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective.
John gets through the entire procedure, somehow. He says a few words, his tie slowly but securely throttling him, things he wishes now he could have said to Sherlock, over and over again, a few words that seem so meaningless, now, after the one they are supposed to be directed at is dead, gone.
Many people say even more words, there is a priest, saying something, a coffin, open, forcing John to stare at Sherlock's unnaturally pallid face again, framed by his dark hair, Mary, clinging to him, never ceasing her sobbing.
A hole in the ground, cold and damp and full of worms, to be filled with a not empty coffin, more words by more people, another kind smile by Sherlock's father, a smile that reminds John of Sherlock so forcefully for a moment that he is afraid of throwing up any second, and then the crowd, scattering, leaving behind the world's only Consulting Detective, leaving him to rot in damp earth.
~ O ~
John spends this night on their sofa, Mary crying in their bedroom, going through all the palpable memories he's got left of Sherlock. His blog entries, the photo album from his and Mary's wedding, pictures taken by a photographer who has turned out to be a murderer, showing a best man who has been murdered. The very few other photos he's got from their time together as flatmates, one in Grimpen, taken by Lestrade, a few from the Christmas party, one with the hat. A picture of him and Sherlock, wearing the hat again, in front of 221B, Sherlock having to explain how he has, miraculously, faked his death, his own suicide.
Two DVDs, one with the video Greg has taken after their very first encounter with Irene Adler, the second one being the video Sherlock has once recorded for John's birthday. Two bloody short videos are everything that remains.
And the waltz, the bloody waltz Sherlock has composed for John and Mary and which he can't even play, because he can't play anything. The scribbled note, for Dr and Mrs Watson, and a recording Mrs Hudson has handed him in a quiet moment. A recording of Sherlock's violin.
And the flat, of course. Or rather, all the stuff that's in the flat, everything that has belonged to Sherlock. John's now. Including his coat, his violin, the hat. The bloody hat.
Pictures from the wedding are the most difficult ones to look at, John decides when flicking through them again. So happy, all of them, so delighted. It is impossible to believe that only a little more than one month has passed since then.
One month of another lifetime without Sherlock.
Thank you for reading. Feedback would be very much appreciated, so if you could spare a few seconds... that would be marvellous.