This really isn't very nice.
Sherlock ached, from head to toe and back again. His hair was longer, his eyes were almost falling into his head, and his body buzzed. The genius flopped face first onto the mattress of the hotel, groaning as one of his ribs screamed in protest. It's been a year and a half now, since he jumped. John still thought he was dead. He hadn't noticed the photographer at his wedding had curls or perfect blue eyes. He hadn't noticed the nurse at his wife's first ultrasound had cheekbones that could cut a person.
He hadn't noticed the rookie three rows and two men away from him was a little to skinny for his uniform.
Sherlock had noticed. He had noticed that John looked resigned at his own wedding, stealing glances at his wife as if he expected her to be someone else. He'd noticed how the army doctor looked at the ultrasound as if it were a bitter sweet miracle. He'd noticed how his friend looked so right in the crowd of soldiers ready to depart.
Sherlock rolled over with a huff, trying to explain the rolling emotions in his gut when his phone began to ring. He ignored three text messages and two calls before he finally gave up and answered the damn thing.
"Mycroft." He growled into the receiver. "Can I have a little peace? Just for a day!"
"Sherlock…" His brother sounded wrong. Something in his voice was cracking, a sliver of emotion trickling into the sarcasm. The way he said his little brothers name, like it was a prayer, or a plea. "I'm afraid that Captain John Watson, M.D and his comrades were attacked on patrol."
"A-and?"
"No survivors."
Sherlock was upright in a second, and every injury in his body set on fire. The pain coursing through him was nothing compared to his mind palace. Every room shaking, vibrating, crumbling. He tried to run through the broken glass and falling concrete, jumping over memories and moments to find logic.
It was no where.
All that surrounded him was a chill. Like a blizzard of glass raining down on his pristine mind. His mind skipped denial like it was a bad song, going straight into shock. 'Deep breath' A familiar voice echoed in his mind. Commanding, yet gently enough to calm him. A tenor that he'd never hear outside his head again. Sherlock obeyed, as he always did, and sucked in a breath that made his aching ribs torture him.
"John's dead." He even impressed himself with the lack of emotion in his tone.
"Indeed." Mycroft agreed, but his tone betrayed the guilt he felt. "You'll be returning to London immediately, of course. He's written a letter."
Sherlock ended the call without a response, both brothers knew he'd be there. With a shaking hand he pulled his few belongings into a suitcase and headed towards a black car just outside.
No one seemed to notice the dead man walking down the street. Not even one head turned as he made his way down the sidewalk. Rain held onto his curls, gently tracing each spiral with it's cold fingers. Causing the fringe to stick to his brow as he shuffled forward, moving slower than he ever had. Each step foregin in its familiarity, shining shoes breaking the puddles with a slap. Cold fingers curled around rusted tags deep within his pocket, thumb tracing four letters, a space, and six more. Chain wrapped tightly around a thin wrist, nearly cutting into the pale skin.
A few cars sat beside the sidewalk, shapes gray and monster like in the wind beaten rain. To many vehicles that held too many people to fit within the walls of the place he called home. He walked towards a door with golden letters that he'd never hated more. A knocker turned gently to the side, the way John always left it. A silence that shouldn't reside within his home hanging on the steps as he entered.
A sniffle echoed in the thick air, a choked sob, but nothing more. Sherlock took the steps he used to climb with excitement at a slow pace. Memories playing inside his frozen mind palace. Blonde hair and eyes that seemed to always be one color, but many others at the same time. Giggles that didn't make sense, and curses that made him smile.
Slowly Sherlock lifted his foot and pulled himself up another stair. Another step, and another, and another but they seemed endless. He was leading himself to his greatest fear, to the one thing that he would've done anything to not see. The moment he'd jumped off a building to stop, the moment he'd threatened the most dangerous man alive to avoid.
The moment of John Watson's end.
Now he stood before a door. A door that once opened to reveal a doctor in a chair, a place he called home. A door that held his heart, now held his worst fears. If he ran now he could pretend it wasn't true. He could find something that would destroy his rational thoughts, something that would let his best friend be alive if only just to him. For a moment Sherlock considered it, considered a world of blissful ignorance and stupidity. Only for John would he even think of giving up his brain.
He wasn't able to choose which world he wanted, because then the door swung open. A figure was outlined by dim light, but it was obviously Lestrade. "Bastard." The DI said the moment he realized who was standing outside. "You utter bastard." Sherlock heard the tremor now, the hitch and sigh of someone who's been crying. Before the genius could respond he was crushed into a desperate hug. "At least now I haven't lost both of ya." Was mumbled into his neck before Lestrade let him go. He wanted to turn away, find a back alley and a man named 'toe-nail' with a baggy of something that could erase his brain. He wanted to hide in the darkness, wrapped in clothes and starving, if that meant John could be alive inside of him. Sherlock's wrist was grabbed and he was inside a dust covered apartment.
The memories attacked him all at once. John laughing, John yelling, John singing, John just being himself. Cases scattered everywhere, and a light inside the blue eyes across from him. Moments of domesticity that he never knew he loved so much. Hot cups of tea in his hand and the rustling of paper inside a chair that was always John's. Laughter and arguments matched with silence that wrapped them in a comfortable hold, holding their hectic world together while they rested alone within their home.
Now it was full of people, shocked faces and guilty eyes, but it was empty. So empty the seams burst and the windows cracked, the air like cotton hanging wetly from his limbs. Emptiness that attacked his memories and tore them to pieces and threw the shreds around like confetti, burrowing into his skin and sinking into his veins. Slithering up the blood cells, finding their way into his heart and pulling their claws down the muscle. Real, cold blood leaking from gashes deep within a dead muscle. Words never said, and wishes never fulfilled oozing from the rapidly still thing within Sherlock' chest, drowning him slowly.
A blonde, pretty and perfect sat in John's chair. Her stomach was round, and her cheeks were stained red and wet. A ring sat on her left hand, binding her to a corpse as much as the child inside of her. Her shoulders lifted and fell in a calming pattern as she sobbed over a photograph.
Mary.
Near John's wife's feet was another woman, crouched and holding the others shaking hand. Her hair was graying near the roots, but the ends were platinum blonde and braided to her lower back. Her eyes were a soft, caring green. Her face looked like a copy of john's, but with a few changes to make it her own.
Harry.
A man and woman sat near Molly, hanging on each other. The woman's face was buried in the man's shoulder. Molly was rubbing circles on the woman;s back. The man was stoic, tears streaming down his cheeks but yet he stared straight ahead like a soldier.
Parents.
Sherlock straightened his suit jacket with a jerk, pushing away the tears that were swarming his eyes. Mycroft cleared his throat, but his eyes never left his little brother as he stood and spoke. Clear blue attached to the younger man, searching and pulling, pushing and prodding, dissecting and deducing. Sherlock knew his brother saw everything, he wasn't trying to hide anything. He was laid bare today, open and hurting like he never had. The slight flick of his brothers fingers, the eyebrow raised half a centimeter and the lip curl meant they had to talk after this. Sherlock looked to the left, then the right, and gave a head nod that was barely discernible as his agreement.
"John asked that this note be read to all those that meant the most to him." His eyes flicked across the room, but everyone's gaze moved subtly to Sherlock. The truth was well known. "So this is the official reading of Captain John Watson's last goodbye."
'Dear everyone,
So if you're reading this I guess I only got a one way ticket here. I have a lot to say, to all of you, so this might take a while.
Mary, oh Mary I loved you. I wish...so many things. I wish I could give you one last kiss. I wish I could meet our little girl, but I hope she's beautiful like you. I hope she fights like I did. Make sure you tell her about me, love, and only the good stories. I miss you, so much, but it seems I'll never get to hold you again. I loved you Mary Watson, and I hope one day you can find someone worthy of your love. One day, you'll find someone new to love and that's okay, I hope you do. Goodbye, my wife.
Mum and dad, I'm really sorry I didn't get to see you're 50th anniversary. Mum, I want you to know my soul is up in heaven, where you always wanted it. Dad, I don't regret following your footsteps. I'm proud to have given my life for my country, and all of you. I want you to put me to rest outside of our hometown, where grandma and papa are. I loved you both, more than you'll ever know. Goodbye, mum and dad.
Harriet! You better not start drinking because of this, I'd never forgive myself. You've gotten so much better, Harry, don't let it all go. I was proud to be your little brother, even when you were being an idiot. Don't let Clara go, you two are perfect together. I loved you Harriet, every day, so be good. Goodbye, big sis.
Molly and Lestrade, if you two don't sleep together I'm going to haunt you. Goodbye, old friends.
Mycroft, you're a bastard for not telling me. Goodbye, government.
Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry that I left to. I know how alone you felt after...You were always like family to me. Goodbye, Martha.
Sherlock.
That's right you cock, I know. I figured it out, after a while and a little help. You were that lanky rookie the day I left, weren't you?...I forgive you. It took a little thinking, but I'll always forgive you Sherlock Holmes, always.
If you haven't deduced it yet, yeah, I loved you. I was in love with you, and no that doesn't mean I didn't love Mary. I did, I loved her and I loved you. Until the day I died, you two were both the loves of my life and I'm not sure if that's right but I don't care. Help her raise our daughter Sherlock, teach her about ash and murder and make her a genius like you. You and Mary will like each other, just give one another a chance. Goodbye, My Sherlock.
I wasn't a hero, because they don't exist, but I did die with honor. Remember that, all of you, and don't do anything stupid.
Forever and Always Love,
Dr. John H. Watson
P.S: Name her Joan?
Mycroft finished with a cough, raising his gaze from the note to take in the room. Mary was smiling, softly and sadly, but smiling. Harry looked torn between sobbing and laughing. His parents held each other closely, and Molly and Lestrade were both blushing and stealing glances at each other. In the back Sherlock was against a wall, tears trailing over cheekbones and a look of utter shock in his eyes.
Mycroft knew John had loved Sherlock, and Sherlock had loved John, but now he regretted more than ever not bringing it up before. His little brother looked like he'd been smashed then glued together again. Slowly the man folded the note, setting it on the mantle with a steady hand. He made his way to the kitchen, Sherlock following on jello like legs. Mycroft turned to his younger brother, and to both mens confusion, brought him into a hug.
The movement was awkward and completely wrong, but neither man pulled away at first. Mycroft let go, looking extremely troubled with himself as he searched Sherlock's face. "What the hell was that?" The younger Holmes coughed after a moment, trying his best to keep his voice level.
"I'm not sure…" Mycroft admitted, shaking his head. "Let us never speak of it."
"Agreed."
"On to more important matters." Mycroft pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket, holding it out to his brother. "I am deeply sorry."
Sherlock took the note, raising his eyebrows at his brother. Slowly he unfolded the slip, and felt his heart do a strange twist.
Hello Again Sherlock, darling! Did you miss me? -M.