A/N: hello! So, I absolutely adore this poem and after watching the fall, I thought it really summed up both the boy's feelings during their separation, so of that feeling grew this.
'If' by Rudyard Kipling is readily available on the internet, or I type it out at the end but it really is a lovely poem, so check it out if you want to.
I have a rather important event this Sunday, so I would really like some feedback, because I kinda told the judging panel I write… anyways wish me luck!
Oh and it's a little AUish because in my head John is RAF (Royal Air Force) not Army cos I wanna do his job in the RAF not the Army.
Always remember the two r's. Read and review.
Oh and enjoy
Lily x
If you can keep your head when all about you,
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you.
15th January 2012
Sherlock stands on the ledge of st Bart's hospital, his last glimmer of hope had faded as he watched Moriarty blow his own brains out. And now there is no way out. The panic of just a few minutes ago disappears, as he watches John open the cab door and scramble out. Tears fill Sherlock's eyes as he takes out his 'phone and presses the call button. He knows what he has to do.
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too.
19th January 2012
'… and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.' John Watson swallows the rapidly growing lump in his sore throat and grits his teeth. Sherlock would not have lied to him. He was an arrogant bastard and he exaggerated sure enough, but he would never have outright lied. Not to him. John buries his head in his hands. Everyone would believe the papers and if you didn't know Sherlock, it would seem that his talent was weird, unearthly even, but if people would just open their eyes!... John snorts into his sobs. Oh, how he sounds like Sherlock…
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies.
24th November 2014
Sherlock asks Mycroft to send him footage of John every week from the security cameras stationed around the flat. Nothing creepy and certainly nothing from the bedroom or bathroom, just… normal things. John making tea, John dozing in his chair, John talking to the skull as if it were Sherlock, Normality is what you make of it. There is one video Sherlock will never get rid of. After the fifth or so rehash of another 'Fraudulent Detective' story, John seems to have gotten sick of it. The video is basically John shouting down the 'phone at some sobbing desk-girl for an hour about his views on their 'Jingoistic, fraudulent, propagandist fucking lie machine'. Sherlock pauses the video and smiles at his friend's eloquence. Just a few more months, he can't wait.
Or being hated, don't give way to hatred,
And yet, don't look too good nor talk too wise.
4th February 2012
Lestrade calls John in for a case. John is surprised when the detective rings, but agrees to have a look. Walking through the yard he realises his mistake. The resentful looks and hushed voices would have been bad enough, but when the golden-haired, newly promoted detective sergeant knocks his stick from his hand John realises just how wrong he has been. His knee gives out under him and he sinks uncomfortably to the floor. Evidently, someone realises that is too much and John is begrudgingly helped to his feet. He makes his way painfully to Lestrade's door and says, in ringing tones, 'I'll leave this to the professionals I think Greg. Wouldn't want to upset anyone.' When Greg acknowledges him with a false smile, John executes a smart about turn and limps back the way he has come.
If you can dream and not make dreams your master,
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim.
15th January 2013
The sob catches in John's throat as he sits bolt upright in bed. He lifts a shaking hand to his forehead, feeling cold sweat dry there. He rolls over, checks the time on the bedside clock. 00:05 15-01-13. John hugs his knees and feels a tear course down his face. One year to the day. In his dream, he saw Sherlock lying on the pavement once again. The blood, so much blood. So red and watery, almost too watery…
'Just a dream' he says hoarsely. 'Only a dream.' But the tears behind his eyes beg to differ.
If you can meet with triumph and disaster,
And treat those two imposters just the same.
28th August 2013
Sherlock winces as his brother touches his black eye.
Mycroft tuts 'Really, Sherlock. If you can't take care of yourself you shouldn't be in this state.' Sherlock glowers and slaps the gentle hands away.
'Only a minor lapse' Mycroft bobs down to look his little brother in the eye.
'Sherlock please, you are only in danger out here...'
'And I am in greater danger back there.'
'Sherlock…'
'I will not do that to him Mycroft. Never.'
Mycroft's eyes flicker guiltily.
'Anyway. I've had more successes than failure.'
'Yes.' The older man admits with a sigh. Sherlock grins and winces.
'Onwards and upwards!'
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken,
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools.
20th January 2012
John slams the paper down onto the table. That bloody journalist! He drops his head, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. The worst thing is, it's all true. Every word, every quote, every escapade, all true. He grits his teeth, she won't beat him. Sherlock is…was a good man and she has twisted everything… he smiles wanly as he dials the publisher's number. That is her job, he supposes.
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken.
And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools.
23rd September 2014.
Sherlock watches from his bench as the sandy haired man picks his way slowly between the graves. He watches as the man stumbles slightly, not even the stick helping now. Sherlock watches John stare at the plain black marble. He watches the first tears begin to fall down the doctor's too thin face. He watches John put his hand out and touch the cold black surface. He watches as John sinks painfully to his knees. And then he can't watch anymore. He feels his phone vibrate and reads the text.
Just go home, little brother.
MH
Sherlock smiles sadly. Not long now, he promises silently. Not long.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings,
And risk it all on one turn of pitch and toss.
11th May 2014.
Sherlock slips silently into Bart's Morgue. He observes Molly for a few minutes, grows bored and clears his throat. Molly swings round dropping her Petri dish. 'Sherlock! I…'
'She died of chlorine poisoning, the signs are all there. Dear, dear brush up on your history, Molly!' he sneers.
'Well, I …' she blushes and pushes a hand through her hair.
'It's not important. I need you to help me.'
'Sherlock, it's…'
'I need to work here for a few weeks.' Silence.
'What?'
'I need to work here for a few weeks, Molly. You really should try to listen a little more!' Sherlock rolls his eyes
'Look, Sherlock…'
'I know it's a gamble but please, I'm so close!' Molly sighs and blushes as he takes her hand pleadingly.
'Fine. Put a lab coat and a badge on and no-one'll notice.'
'Hm. Normal people really are as unobservant as I thought.'
'Sherlock!'
'When does John work?' Molly stares at him.
'um Fridays I think. He pops down to see me someti…'
'What shift?'
'Same as me I think.'
'I'll be working that shift too.'
'Do you think that's… ?'
'Molly, I am Sherlock Holmes.'
'Fine. I work two til two on Fridays.'
'Irrelevant. I work when I need to.'
Sherlock breezes out and Molly tries to look like this exchange has been normal. As she turns back to her computer, her mobile bleeps. Tugging it out, she reads;
Mustard Gas
Wilfred Owen
Dulce et Decorum est
Google it and prove me right
SH
And lose and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss.
17th July 2013.
John has never told anyone that Sherlock is dead. Everyone knows of course. They all read the papers and even the receptionist at Bart's can see the sadness in his eyes. But no-one has ever asked why it is there. He has grown accustomed to pity at work, hatred at Scotland Yard, resentment from and towards Lestrade, timidity from Molly. Mrs Hudson still can't look him in the eye without tearing up. He knows they all see it. He doesn't know what he'd tell them if they did ask.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew,
To serve your turn long after they are gone.
3rd December 2012
Sherlock hears the rifle butt coming before it ever hits his face.
'Name, Rank and Number.' The clipped voice demands. Sherlock smiles and spits the blood from his mouth.
'Dear, dear you are getting conventional.' He chokes, the rifle butt descends again followed by a well aimed slap in the same place. The clipped voice makes the same request.
'…Peter Day. Squadron Leader. 1077842.' Sherlock moans theatrically. A fistful of his hair is seized and his head slammed into the door.
'You expect me to believe that?' the voice sneers.
'No.' Sherlock admits, retrieving his grey-blue cap.
'Good.'
'I expect you to remember this.' In one movement Sherlock flips the soldier's gun from its holster, clicks the safety off and puts a bullet through the man's knee cap. He grabs the gargling man's tie and pulls him forward as he falls.
'Threaten John ever again, be it through your own will or through being overpowered by a large amount of money, and I will shoot two foot higher.' Sherlock lets the khaki tie slide through his fingers and steps over the groaning man. With that, he pockets the browning, opens the door and steps into the blistering Afghani heat. Sniper number one down. He sets the cap on curly hair, adjusting his wings on his left breast. This is easy.
And so hold on when there is nothing in you,
Except the will which says to them 'Hold on!'
17th July 2014.
'Hi Molly, I was just wondering…' John stops. Instead of Molly, seated at the desk is a ginger-haired, freckled young man, blinking nervously up at him.
'Dr Hooper isn't in at the minute sir.' The lad squeaks, nervously pushing his glasses back up his nose and licking his lips. 'Would you like me to page her?' he continues, holding up his phone hopefully.
'No that's fine, dr…?'
'Day, sir. Peter Day.'
'Oh. Well can you just… just tell her I want to talk to her.' The boy nods, face screwed up with the effort of remembrance.
'And… tell her it's about Sherlock. She'll understand.'
'Yes sir.'
'Thank you Dr Day.'
When John is gone, Peter Day turns back to his computer screen and lets his voice return to the natural baritone. He pushes his hair back and smiles sadly, reverting, just for a minute, back to Sherlock Holmes.
'Keep holding on John.' He mumbles. 'Please.'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
And walk with kings nor lose the common touch.
15th January 2014
John glances in the mirror and straightens his black tie.
'2 years to the day, Sherlock.' He whispers, sadly and pulls on his jacket, buttoning grey-blue over black and sky blue. He sets the blue cap on his salt-and-pepper hair and pulls an imaginary hair off his epaulettes, displaying three pale blue lines and a silver crown. In the cab he rubs his shoes nervously on the backs of his spotless trousers until they reach their destination.
When he hops out he almost forgets to pay the cabby and has to sprint back and give him an extra tenner. As John makes his way quickly to the, surprisingly large, group of people, his step falters and his stick trembles in his hand. There are a lot of people he knows, even more he doesn't know but has an inkling he recognises, and a few he's not sure he even wants to know about. He's not sure he can do this. But he keeps calm and limps over. By the time he makes it, nearly everyone is seated. He hobbles up the aisle and stands where Mycroft indicates. He takes a deep breath.
'I hardly think it fair to describe Sherlock Holmes, to his nearest and dearest…'
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you but none too much.
15th January 2014
A young man with red hair and freckles sits at the back of the memorial service and listens as John speaks of Sherlock.
'He was dedicated, hard working…' the man smiles with satisfaction.
'… a precocious dick, if ever there was one…' the smile disappears and the freckled forehead puckers as the congregation laughs.
'But he was my best friend. I don't think there is one person here, who can honestly say he didn't change their life. And… I miss him every day.' John hangs his head as his voice cracks and limps back to his seat. The man calling himself Peter Day slips quietly away. He wanders a safe distance from the congregation and then stares up at the clear blue sky.
'I miss you too, John.' He whispers. He wipes his eyes and fades into the foreground.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute,
With sixty seconds worth of distance run.
16th January 2015
Dr John Watson MD, late of the RAMC, picks his way through the graveyard slowly. It's not the first time he's been here. It's not even the first time this week. His right hand trembles on the white plastic handle of his stick, he ignores it through a faint mist of frustration, because he can remember a time when he didn't have the tremor and didn't need the cane. But that's all gone now. He finds the stone he has been looking for and lowers himself onto the grass in front of it, despit the wetness and the slight drizzle now falling.
'Hello, Sherlock.' He says. 'Sorry I didn't come yesterday, I needed to work late. Three separate crashes and all on different bloody floors. It was manic, I've only just woken up.' He pauses and listens to the sounds of the graveyard for a while. It's peaceful and he appreciates it. 'Saw Lestrade yesterday. We're getting on better again… I think we each blamed the other for… well, for what happened to you. But we're over that I think. It's been hard for both of us.' He pauses again and rummages around in his pocket, retrieving a folded piece of paper. 'Listen, you told me once you liked Kipling and I was passing the library yesterday and I… I found this poem. One of the last lines is 'If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run' and… I suppose that's why I'm here today.' He smiles tightly 'Figuratively of course. It's just… there's so much I never told you and well… I loved you Sherlock. You were my best friend and… it's just not been the same without you. There. I've said it. Anyway.' John says smiling a little through his tears 'I expect you'd rather hear the Kipling than listen to me rabbit on wouldn't you?' he clears his throat and wipes his eyes unconvincingly on his sleeve.
'If you can keep your head when all about you,
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too.
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hatred,
And yet, don't look too good nor talk too wise.
If you can dream and not make dreams your master,
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with triumph and disaster,
And treat those two imposters just the same.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken,
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings,
And risk it all one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew,
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you,
Except the will which says to them, 'Hold On!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your Virtue,
And walk with kings nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you but none too much.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute,
With sixty seconds worth of distance run…'
'… then yours is the earth and everything that's in it,
And-which is more- you'll be a man my son!'
The minute John hears that smooth baritone, he squeezes his eyes shut and doesn't turn round.
'John…'
'Go away.'
'John, I wanted to tell you, but you were in danger…'
'Go away because I'll wake up in a minute and you'll be gone and I'll be alone and…' John starts as he feels a soft pressure on his lips and a hand on his arm. He opens his eyes to Sherlock's grinning face.
'Does that convince you?' he teases and John simply leans into him and smiles. He will hit him and shout for hours later. But now, it's cold and he has Sherlock back. So he thinks of windscreen wipers. And lets it rain.