A/N: This started as a starter to a role-play for Omegle. And then turned into this.
I.. am so done. Someone take my laptop away from me, yes?
Advised A/N: This started as a prompt for a roleplay. As in the first five or six paragraphs were intended as a roleplay.. it isn't actually a roleplay. I wrote the entire thing myself. So, yeah. Just to clear that up because apparently it wasn't assumed.
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Closing the Circle
by Magickbeing
His hands were clasped in front of him, his eyes faced forward, staring blankly at lightly polished stone. The sky reflected itself on the surface, a cruel reminder of men without wings. John Watson exhaled slowly, deliberately, silently tracing his eyes over the engraved name. It was an automatic gesture. He was looking but not seeing, not really. He had seen enough of those letters, their hard lines and flat color, to last him a lifetime. They weren't simply engraved on stone. They were engraved in his mind, in the back of his eyelids, and John could see nothing but.
It had been three years. Three horribly long years. Lonely years full of uneventful days and always, always a tombstone. He had visited Sherlock's grave every day of every year, if only for a moment. It wasn't healthy. He was anchored to it, tied down by time that had long ago passed.
Three years.
But today was different.
John straightened, his fingers absently brushing across his own knuckles, and then his hands were falling to his sides. He stepped forward and trailed his fingers across the top of the tombstone, touching the familiar ridges that time and its weather had brought. Licking his lips, John's touch retracted and he withdrew a letter from his jacket pocket. He placed it along the top of the tombstone, carefully, obsessively smoothing the envelope's edges. The envelope's face was blank. There was no addressee. The irony burned.
There was a curt nod and a lingering glance and then John turned, following the familiar path out of the cemetery. With automatic gestures, familiar gestures, John climbed into the waiting taxi and headed back to 221B Baker street—it had long ago stopped being home. The cemetery, with its patches of faded grass, dark dirt, and broken trees—that was his home now. His flat was just a reminder, an echo of what was and couldn't be, but even then, even on that day—that wonderfully, perfectly different day—John was compelled to return, if only for a moment. He had one more goodbye to say. His head lulled back against the seat and, automatically, his thoughts recited the words of his letter.
Sherlock. I don't know where time has gone. It's passed so slowly—and yet somehow, so quickly. It's been three years. Three years today. Did you know I haven't cried? I wanted to. I've started to. Dozens of times. A familiar burning. It starts in my lungs and moves to my eyes and then I can't breathe—but I've never once cried. Until today. Today will be different. I know it will. Do you know how? Because I'm coming full circle. It always ends where it starts, doesn't it? Always.
I never stopped believing. Never.
Please forgive me.
The taxi came to a stop, startling John from such thoughts. He opened his eyes, straightening.
John considered asking the driver to wait. He didn't need to go inside. There was nothing going inside would do. It would only hurt, hurt her, Mrs. Hudson, and while John knew that such feelings were inevitable, he longed to spare her—just a little bit longer. That was what he did, after all. He tried to protect her, shield her from the pain—his pain. He had been trying to do so for the past three years. Sometimes he was successful. Other times? Not so much, but such was life. For obvious reasons, the first year had been the hardest. As much anger as she had tried portraying, she had been broken, just as he had. Her cracks quickly surfaced, more quickly, more obvious than John's, and that's why he had stayed.. there, in that flat. He hated the memories it brought. He hated the deep, constant loneliness and the never ending silence, but he knew she couldn't bare to lose him, too.
Unfortunately, loss was as inevitable as pain.
He forced himself to follow through with his original plan. He paid the driver and stepped out, walked toward and stepped into the familiar entry way. He searched for her, but apparently, she had just stepped out. John sighed. She deserved a better goodbye than this, but John couldn't wait. He had waited for too long. He needed this. He needed to move on, to finish the circle. His body, his mind, his heart ached. He throbbed. Three years had been three years too long.
No.
That was a lie. The first few months had hurt the worst, yes, but they had also held in them a glimmer of hope. A faint, completely irrational belief that Sherlock had somehow survived. John had checked his pulse himself—he knew it couldn't be true—but blind faith was better than no faith and John had clung to it like a child to a teddy bear. Unfortunately, all children outgrew their toys and, eventually, John had to outgrow his. He walked upstairs and into his flat. There was a slight limp to his gait, but it wasn't enough to require the use of a cane.
The door wasn't locked. It never was. He hadn't locked it since Sherlock left. He had managed to convince himself that Sherlock would come home. That he had to come home, and when he did—well, what would he do if the door was locked and John wasn't there? It had been the byproduct of blind faith, and even though John had long ago abandoned such faith, it had since developed as a habit. It was an automatic, familiar gesture.
Few things had changed in his flat.
Sherlock's possessions were still there. Familiar, comforting. Lonely. It was cleaner, though. Slightly more organized, but only as of late. He had tried organizing things for Mrs. Hudson. He didn't want to leave her with such a mess. She deserved better than that. She always had.
John easily found what he was looking for. He practically collapsed into the wooden chair, its frame creaking under use. He smoothed the edges of the stationary, the pen absently twirling between two fingers. He didn't know what to say. Writing it down—it was final. It was no longer just a tense, brief conversation between two friends, thick with hidden meaning and a goodbye John couldn't quite say. He shifted, his fingers drumming against the tabletop. He was nervous but for all of the wrong reasons. He was nervous—afraid—that what ever he said, what ever he did—it wouldn't be enough. There was a part of John that knew he was being selfish, that he was being a coward, but it was but a dull whisper in the back of his mind, the faded, over-used part of him that had tried to persevere.. but failed.
A hand moved to cradle his head, his elbow against the table. John's eyes fluttered shut. He thought of turning on a bit of music to break the silence, the thick loneliness plaguing the air—Zigeunerweisen, by Pablo de Sarasate, maybe—but it seemed too fitting, too dramatic. Sherlock would have scoffed.
He grimaced.
I've realized miracles don't happen.
No matter how hard a person wishes, no matter how strong the belief is, it's nothing more than that: a belief. A trick of the mind. I don't know why I ever expected anything different. Maybe because it was you. I've never been one for miracles, really. A doctor must believe in modern medicine and reason; a soldier must believe in a steady hand and a certain death—and a man.. a man must believe—must accept mortality because without such an acceptance, he may forget to live.
Did I ever know how to, Sherlock? I thought I was living. I thought you helped me live—you were the light in my darkness. My best friend.
I depended on you too heavily and now I'm lost.
Please forgive me.
He opened his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the letter at hand, the one that had yet to be written. He exhaled slowly, deliberately, and searched for some sort of comfort, a string of words and letters that would make it easier for her to accept the inevitable. Minutes dragged by. Time slipped through his fingers until finally, finally, there was an array of writing across the paper. Dark, thin lines. Steady lines. He folded the stationary and tucked it into its envelope. He wrote her name on it, a scratched, sprawling scrawl that was fluid and calm. It didn't resemble the dying man that lived in John's heart.
John moved to his feet, letter in hand. Tired eyes slipped across the length of his flat. Memories danced in his vision, blurred movement, shadows of a man with dark hair and hollowed cheekbones. He swallowed thickly and moved toward the fireplace, carefully tucking Mrs. Hudson's letter behind the aged skull that resided on its mantle. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Apparently the day was full of irony.
He cast a final, lingering look across the length of his flat before stirring, his feet carrying him downstairs. He left the door unlocked behind him and somehow that familiar, automatic act felt heavier than it should. It felt.. final. He inhaled slowly, deeply, and headed outside.
For once, time took pity.
It, too, must have thought three years was enough because moments later, John was able to hail a taxi.
A quiet request. Just an address. They were nothing more than words and numbers—and yet they were everything. They were his sadness, his anger, his will and ability to pretend. John relaxed against the seat, his body thrumming with a quiet, vague contentment. There was a slow, burning fire in his chest. It warmed his heart.
I don't know if I believe in Heaven. My mother did, as does Harriet. I don't think you did. I don't know. We never talked about such things. You were all science and reason, though, so I can only imagine how trivial such beliefs seemed. I wish we had talked about it. I wish I knew if you believed. Maybe it would give me the strength to believe, too.
I'm not afraid. I've faced death more times than I care to list. If there is a Heaven—well, I know I won't be going there, but.. you'll forgive me anyway, won't you?
I forgave you.
Minutes later, the taxi was coming to a stop. John handed the driver a few notes—more money than necessary, no doubt—and he climbed out of the taxi before the driver could even thank him. He started down the street. Again, John was looking but not really seeing—he hesitated, just off of the curb, his eyes lingering on the opposing sidewalk.
He saw blood and a still chest.
John headed inside.
It was easier than it should be to access the roof. Everyone had forgotten the man with dark hair and a billowing coat. Everyone but him it seemed. He walked to its edge and perched on its cement ledge, his eyes falling to the ground. Little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. Good. That was good. John sat there for a long while, simply watching the people milling about beneath him. Happy, busy people. Oblivious people. Three years ago, when it had first happened, John found himself angered by such people. His entire world had been turned upside down, the ground beneath his feet pulled out from under him. He had been cast into lurching, dizzying chaos. He had been unable to understand their happiness. Someone had died—Sherlock had died—and somehow, John's was the only world that had stopped spinning.
It had disgusted him. Some days, it still did.
Today was not one of those days.
Today was different.
He moved to his feet and stepped onto the ledge. His body was steady but already he could hear the wind greeting him, crashing around him and biting at his ears. It pushed and pulled at him, wrapping itself around him like the embrace of an old friend. It encouraged him.
The corner of his mouth twitched, his fingers curling into his palms.
John angled his face toward the sky. It was uncharacteristically clear—a pale, steady robin's egg blue. The sun was high and there were few clouds to be seen. His mouth twisted into a slight, wry smile, and his eyes slipped shut. He thought he should be nervous. But he wasn't. His hand wasn't even trembling—he was completely calm. Content, even. And yet the burning in his chest intensified, lighting his lungs a flame. A knot formed in his stomach, hot and acidic, working its way further up his abdomen and into his throat. He let out a shuddering breath, angry that his body was betraying him so. He wanted this and he was so calm—and yet he wanted to cry.
It was to be expected, really.
He was going home—of course he wanted to cry.
Surely this was relief.
There was a choked, strangled gasp and then hot, wild tears started to pour over his eyelashes. He was going home. His heartbeat started to quicken, beating frantically against his ribs, and through the tears, John managed a smile. He opened his eyes and looked to the ground. No one had noticed. There would be no one to mourn him as he had mourned Sherlock.
He was okay with that. He preferred that.
His pain would end with him. He wouldn't pass it on as Sherlock had.
I'm ending the cycle, Sherlock. I'm coming full-circle. I'm coming home.
Please forgive me.
I'll see you soon.
Sucking in one last, steadying breath, John leaned forward and into the wind's embrace.
There was a rush of movement. He could see the ground approaching but he wasn't really aware of it. He was falling—he knew this. He had chosen to fall. And yet his mind tried protecting him, tried to flood his nerves with chemicals and endorphins. Sensory overload. Peace. No thought—no coherent thought, and then he was breaths before the pavement. He was so close he could touch it—and then nothing. His mind collapsed against itself, steeled itself away from the inevitable pain as a final surge of adrenaline coursed through his body.
Moments later, after his body had crashed upon the asphalt, broken and bleeding, the wind carried with it eight words—frantic, breathless and loud: "Let me come through, please! He's my friend!"
The irony burned.
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A/N: There are dozens of little things in this that make my heart hurt. Like John wanting to listen to a famous violinist to break the loneliness blanketing his flat. And that he refers to the cemetery as home because Sherlock's there and Sherlock is his home. Yeah. There are more, but I thought those two were the most important to point out.
You know, just in case I'm the only one crying..