Unwritten Poems
Hello, friends! I haven't written anything in a while but I just saw this post on tumblr about an AU where Sherlock dreams about all his adventures with John while being in a coma and John is just a doctor who reads him detective stories by his bed so I got all these feels and decided to write something. I hope you'll enjoy! R&R is love! 3
Three weeks. For three bloody weeks doctor John H. Watson from St. Bartholomew's hospital came daily to room 221 B and sat on a small chair next to a bed where a beautiful man laid connected to the machineries.
He's been in coma for three weeks, after a drunk driver hit him one night, while making his way home. Doctor Watson chose to read to this patient knowing that he'd listen, knowing that this might be a way to wake this man up. Sherlock Holmes was his name; an unusual name to an unusual face. His skin was as pale as marble and he had brown ruffled curls that surrounded his skull like an aura. It was a joy to watch this creature sleep, and that's why John Watson chose to be next to him for an hour daily. He mostly read him detective stories, because they were the doctor's favorites.
He didn't know that Sherlock liked detective stories as much as him and, maybe, even more.
"Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time." his partner, John Watson, told him, looking him dead in the eye. They were having another argument that followed a case; or was it during a case? These details never mattered for Sherlocl; all he knew was that he was lucky to have John next to him, to solve crimes and have him blog about them, to have someone so kind and affectionate next to him who was always cold and inhuman. Three weeks since John entered his life and Sherlock looked at him like a miracle. It was now that he acknowledged the doctor's beautiful features, his sandy blonde hair and his blue eyes that shone whenever he smiled. He had a beautiful smile, that kind of smile that made him have crinkles around his eyes and that's why Sherlock did everything that was possible to keep him smiling for a long amount of time.
But the night following their small argument, Sherlock went to bed and woke up someplace else.
"Hey, good morning Sherlock!" the doctor told him. It was the first time he actually saw his patient with his eyes open. And what eyes! He had beautiful blue-green eyes that gleamed with intelligence. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, had warned him about his patient's intelligence and the questions that might follow his awakening.
"I'm Doctor John Watson and I'm assigned to take care of you. I assume you know what happened before you blacked out?"
Sherlock watched curiously the hospital room, he analyzed the machineries that were keeping him alive and he suddenly realised; this wasn't his John or his life. John looked at him, waiting for a response, then shook Sherlock slightly, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"Yes. I do know. A car hit me."
"Good." John smiled. That breathtaking smile that Sherlock had dreamed about for three weeks in a row. It belonged to this man, the whole time. John Watson, the John Watson, was only a silhouette he created, using this man's face. Sherlock felt hot tears filling his eyes and then he knew.
Three days after, Mycroft came to take his little brother home. He thanked the doctor and gave his brother fresh clothes that Sherlock quickly put on, tired of the hospital gown. For three days he had enjoyed his doctor's company, he had him read in order to finish the book. "Crime in Orient Express" was one of his favorites, and he discovered that it was one of John's favorites as well. He was so drawn to John and he regreted having to go home and return to his old life, all alone with his brother, unemployed and useless. He started to think that it might have been better if the car actually killed him.
Then, in his mind, he clung to his dreams, to John's image, so pure and innocent, of his shining eyes and that smile that could bring world peace. In Sherlock's vision, John was his angel, his hero, the man that saved him from his eternal sleep, the man that started to mean the most to him.
Sherlock came daily at Saint Bart's to see John; not directly see him or talk to him, but just watch him from a distance as he poured himself coffee or as he made his way to the parking lot to go home. One night, he saw a woman approach him and kiss him.
"Hello, dear." she said.
" Hey Mary. Did you have a good day? How's our baby doing?" John asked her, putting a hand on the woman's stomach. She was his wife, pregnant with his child. Sherlock could feel his heart being shattered into pieces, so he stopped making trips to St. Bart's to see John. " He has his own life." he thought.
He never told Mycroft about his dreams, but instead he took up his old habits. He started seeing his homeless friends again, giving them money for cocaine which he took in order to be able to dream a bit more. For in his dreams he created a world where his existance wasn't useless, where he meant something for someone, where he could see that silhouette make its way towards his own every moment he wished. He was lost; he was drifting into his own abyss and no one could possibly stop it. He was used to not getting out of his room for days, getting high and writing letters for J.W., letters that the good doctor would know nothing about.
Then, one night, when he returned from his meetings with his "friends", Sherlock procedeed to do his daily ritual: he filled the syringe and planted it into one of his veins. He started having a blurry vision, then he was in the apartament he shared with John; John shouted from the kitchen:
"Sherlock, you forgot the milk again! By the way, Lestrade called; he needs you tonight to work on a murder."
He made his way to the kitchen and grabbed John by the waist. It was the big night for Sherlock, and he knew it.
"Sherlock wha-"
He cut John off with a kiss.
"It's going to be only us from now on, John, I promise."
For a moment, Sherlock woke up only to refill the syringe and plant it one of his veins once again. He lay in bed, his eyes closed, some classical violin music playing in the background. Yes, it was going to be with his John from now on; no more annoying older brothers, no more parents to tell him he's useless. A tear streamed down his cheek, and then he was with his love again.
Next morning, Mycroft found his dead body lying on its back.
"Oh Sherlock...What have you done...?" he asked, more to himself, then called the police.
" John, could you please do me a favor?" Molly Hooper asked her colleague.
He raised his eyes from the magazine he was reading, and nodded.
"Sure, what is it?"
"I was wondering if you could stay in my place at the morgue this afternoon. Not for long, just a couple of hours. I...I have a date." Molly flushed red.
"Of course, Molly! Enjoy yourself!"
John made his way to the morgue and entered when he saw Mycroft Holmes' tall silhouette in the doorway.
"Sir, is everything alright?" he asked the man.
Mycroft smiled.
"Yes. It's just my little brother." he said, pointing his head in the direction of the table where Sherlock's body laid, lifeless.
John was in shock; he made his way to the table and removed the white sheet from the body. It was indeed him. A shiver went down the doctor's spine and his eyes were filled with tears.
Why was he crying?
Three weeks and three days while he read this man detective stories, three weeks and three days when he believed he could escape his life, when he could imagine a story about this man who laid now dead before him, his skin still looking like marble, his body barely modified. His eyes were open and they seemed so alive to John in that moment, like all the stories that Sherlock had created in his mind were projected onto the irises. His body was an open book that John was unable to read because he was dead. Oh, how Sherlock would have loved to teach John the alphabet of his skin, the secret written on each and every one of his bones but this impossibility had killed him in the end.
Doctor John Watson, married, with an unborn child, was now weeping in front of the body of a man he barely knew, a man he made so many stories about, a story he found his refugy in.
Perhaps they were alike; too tired of their lives, creating a Universe of their own. They didn't know that their Universes could have been entertwined because one Universe died.
"I'm so sorry for your loss, sir." John muttered to Mycroft, as he made his way to the hospital's bathroom. In the mirror he saw his reflection and it shocked him. Behind him, he could almost see Sherlock's silhouette.
"You are my unwritten poem and I don't even know why..."