Oh no! A songfic! W

What has it come to?

Bear with me though, okay?

Song for this chapter is "Better Sorry Than Safe" by Two Hours Traffic. I do not own the song or any characters represented here, and all rights go to their proper recipients.

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Chapter One: Better Sorry Than Safe

John hung up the phone. He didn't know why he still texted and phoned him… He was dead. But it was just so hard to fathom. Sher-… 'he' had always been so untouchable. He seemed as though he would never die. Maybe that was it, John thought. But it didn't matter now. Every call ended in silent tears, and John hanging up, and every text was left unanswered.

Silence on the line between us

Sounds so very wrong

I won't be

Happy

'Till it's gone

Until it's gone

Sherlock stared in disgust at the fresh corpse that lay at his feet, nudging its head away with the toe of his shoe, making certain not to get any blood on his trousers. He then pulled out his phone and hit the return call button.

"Come on, Sebastian, we have a flight to catch."

"'Sher, do we haaave to?"

"Yes, don't be a child. We've only got one more target."

"Exactly."

Sherlock almost regretted hiring Moran. He was definitely an amazing marksman, but his demeanour was altogether too similar to his previous master's. His singsong voice and short temper were the opposite of what Sherlock wanted in a companion; His talkative nature and touchy-feely mannerisms were altogether off-putting to the consulting detective. He missed his quiet blogger, with his awful jumpers and moral compass. Nope, stop that, Sherlock thought quickly. I have to give him the option to move on before I go back… all the same, I wish I had told him.

Give me one more dance before you

Take the time to choose

I've got

Magic

In my shoes, as well

John got up, stretching. He hadn't really slept anyway, so what was the point in staying in bed, even if it was 5:30?

He never slept anymore.

He took Sherlock's old room a week after the funeral, trying to absorb some of the warmth that his flatmate had left behind in his wake.

Mrs. Hudson didn't charge him rent anymore.

He paid it anyway.

Part of him truly wanted for Sherlock not to be dead.

But the rest of him knew that that was impossible, just wishful thinking.

At least there aren't any fingers in the jam anymore, he thought with a dark chuckle.

But then he remembered the way that the detective's face lit up when he got an interesting case, and the way he actually attempted to be a good person sometimes, and his heart sank with the realization that he would never see him again.

Just another typical morning, he thought as he left for his shift at the surgery.

I'm better sorry than safe,

Better never than late,

You'd better make sure I'm gone

Before you make your mistake.

"Sebastian, don't make that face, you know we have to do this," Sherlock said, already bored with the flight as they found their seats.

"Make what face?"

"The face you always make after we finish a job."

"You can hardly blame me."

He has a point, thought Sherlock. He knows I'm going to kill him at the end of this.

"Oh, just shut up and watch a movie or something," he muttered.

Just think of John. About what, how much it'll hurt when I get the well-deserved punch in the face? I wonder if he'll still avoid my nose and teeth…

Sherlock made a mental note to bring milk when he got home.

"…Sherlock?"

"What?" he snapped at the poor excuse for a companion. How did Moriarty put up with him?

"We're landing now. Thought you might like to know."

How are we in London already? We were JUST in New York…

As he climbed into the cab, he said "45 Nansen road," and left Sebastian and his luggage at the airport.

You can't go away, just to come back the same,

Oh, you can't go away, just to come back the same…

It was a very busy day at the surgery. 15 cases of flu, 5 of which were some new variant or another. Screaming children, talkative mothers, deaf old men… John was very happy to get home and make a pot of tea. Mrs. Hudson came by to check on him, and he plastered his best impression of a smile on his face. When she left, he very nearly fell apart, his exhaustion and the weight of his other daily realization coming down on him very suddenly: I love him. Not that it matters anymore. Besides, John had seen many people die before! He had been a soldier, surely he could deal with this!

None of them were Sherlock.

We used to keep ourselves inside,

Now our

Eyes are open wide

They're open wide

Dull.

The same thing every time.

"You wouldn't kill me, you're the hero,"

Or the ever-popular,

"I'm too young/old/rich/poor"

Or

"Please, don't kill me." "Please, God, let me live"

SO INCREDIBLY DULL!

This one went for the classic;

"You? But I thought-" and then, Sebastian shot her, in the side of the head. Made sure it was the left, too, as she happened to be left-handed.

"Sebastian, the gun, please."

He fired a single shot, straight into his former employee's left eye, then placed the gun in the woman's hand carefully, making sure that his wrists above the gloves didn't touch anything. He set the scene for a murder-suicide carefully, creating signs of a struggle on Sebastian's part, then, pleased with his handiwork, left for 221B.

He honestly tried to buy milk on the way, but the chip-and-pin machine decided to screech at him every five seconds about a nonexistent item in the bagging area. He gave up.

I tried to bring milk, I'm sorry.

-SH

He sent as he left the grocer's.

Who is this, and how the bloody hell did you get his phone?

-JW

Sherlock grinned slightly.

Open the door. Molly had to give my key back to Mrs. Hudson and it's cold outside.

-SH

How, the bloody hell, did you get his phone?

-JW

John, drop the pretext, it isn't funny. I'm cold.

-SH

Prove you're him.

-JW

Sherlock sighed.

At Buckingham Palace, when you asked if I was wearing any pants, and I said no, you asked me if we were there to see the Queen, and then Mycroft entered and I said, "Apparently, yes."

-SH

Holy shit.

-JW

The next second, Sherlock heard John's quick, slightly uneven footfalls rushing down the stairs. The limp is back. The deadbolt clicked open, and there stood John, in his ugliest beige jumper (Which now had fresh tea spilt down the front as a result of the shock), looking up incredulously at Sherlock.

He dropped his cane.

He bruised his knuckles punching Sherlock's stupid cheekbone.

To be fair, Sherlock would probably have a black eye as well.

Scratch that, he definitely would.

Mrs. Hudson came out in to the hallway.

"John, what-?"

She dropped her best china serving platter and it broke with a resounding crash.

"Hello."