This should serve as proof that literally anything can be inspiration for fanfic. I don't own Sherlock (that would be the BBC and affiliates thereof) or The Raven (written by Edgar Allen Poe). This story also contains a few nods to Emily Dickinson's Hope is the Thing With Feathers, which I don't own, either. I used most of The Raven, but for brevity's sake, a few cuts were made.
Contains some mild language and implied past Johnlock relationship.
Quoth the Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more."
The walls of 221B stared back at John, moody and oppressive. You left us, they accused. Took off rather than face your grief. Moved in with some girl. Dumped her, moved into a hotel room. You didn't once come back here, they seemed to say. But you thought about it. You thought about it all the time.
John sat up straighter in his armchair, rubbing his eyes. The old flat was stifling with dust, but he knew not whether it was that or some other irrepressible emotion which left him asphyxiated.
Abruptly, he stood, if only to drown out the whispers of the walls. Limping around the room, dragging his leg behind him, the doctor stopped at the bookshelf. He drew a thick encyclopaedia from the nearest stack, thumbing through it as dust as thick as grey cotton drifted from the pages to the floor. It was a book on anatomy, John realized, illustrated with lurid diagrams of muscle and bone. Things were highlighted, comments scrawled in the margin - Sherlock's notes to himself as he worked on a case. With a sigh, the blonde man deposited the hefty tome on the wooden cabinet. He couldn't get rid of something like that - not when he knew that the detective's hand had rested on that page, with his pale fingers and narrow wrists and cufflinks that always seemed to expose just the right amount of skin.
John took another volume off the shelf, breathing deeply in the hopes of releasing some of the nauseous feeling he got in his stomach anytime he thought about Sherlock's suicide. The cover fell open to reveal more chicken-scratch writing, a coffee stain, a dark red-brown speck - the indelible marks all had a story to tell of experiments instead of breakfast and research between midnight flights through London.
He lifted the page.
Behind him, there came a faint knock at the door.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
Mrs. Hudson had been calling for days. Her voicemails got longer, more fretful and rambling, but they all boiled down to the same thing: "It's December, dear. Isn't it time you went through Sherlock's things? I have to let that room out eventually, you know."
John couldn't ignore her any longer. More accurately, his therapist wouldn't let him ignore her any longer. So he had come. He had strode in to his old place, sat down in a rust-hued armchair, and had done nothing else, too at a loss to try. That was four hours ago. The roaring fire, presumably stoked by the landlady, had faded to dim coals and let off the occasional crackle as the scorched wood split.
Sherlock. The detective was dead. Even now, it was unbelievable. John would still catch himself waiting for a text, or turning to steal a kiss from the dark haired man. It had taken him weeks to stop chasing after those inhabitants of London who happened to be wearing a Belstaff in the cold fog and swirling snow.
Sherlock had been brilliant. The times when he smiled, truly smiled, were rare, but they lit up the room all the more for their novelty. John loved that smile, loved the odd moment of quiet admiration in the detective's eyes when he managed to surprise him, and John loved Sherlock himself, all sharp words and edges and clever remarks, which masked a quiet sensitivity. And now he was gone.
He would not say the man's name - not aloud, nor even in his head. His soul shrank from the pain of it.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more."
The heavy velvet drapes half-obscured the window, and in the gentle exhalation provided by the radiator, they moved faintly of their own accord. In his mind's eye, John could see Sherlock standing there, his bow moving serenely over the amber wood of his violin, or buried in the curtains as he lifted them to peer out onto the street. A feeling of illness swept over the doctor, and he swayed where he stood, his grip wrinkling the paper clutched between his fingers.
To think that these simple, material things could evoke such anguished memories! Across the room, there came again the faint sound of a knock.
That will be Mrs. Hudson, John sighed wearily. The landlady had doubtless come to check on his negligible progress. He refused to acknowledge the part of him which heard in that faint noise the memory of a detective's distinctive tread on the landing.
"Yes, alright, I'm coming," he said aloud, navigating the path through the living room with painful lethargy. There was for the third time the muffled sound of a sort of a beat against the door. With an aggravated huff, John drew it open.
The landing was completely empty. The doctor stepped outside looking left and right, but there was not a-one in sight. Listening hard, he found he could make out Mrs. Hudson in her kitchen below, chattering away to somebody on the phone.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—
Merely this and nothing more.
In the gloom of the corridor at the top of the stair, John found his heart beating faster. It was too easy - terrifyingly so - to imagine Sherlock's lazy greeting to their landlady, the sound of his coat dusting the edge of the steps, his low voice murmuring about some case. The recollections came so readily, in fact, that John was no longer certain whether they were memory only, or if it was auditory hallucinations which now added to his waking nightmare.
It was quiet - too quiet. Surely there ought to be some small noise, at least? And yet, as his breath came faster and his chest felt as if it were constricting, even Mrs. Hudson's voice faded away and the silence rang in his ears louder than any clanging bell. No more gunshots fired to dispel the miasma of boredom. No more blowtorches roasting god-knows-what over the kitchen sink. No more haunting melodies spilling down the hall, but oh how those songs haunted him even so.
And then - a creak!
It was a singular sound, and likely as not the product of the old building settling on it's foundations, but in his affected state, John could perceive it only as too convenient to be coincidence. An impossible hope beat its wings against the iron bars of his ribs.
"Sherlock?" he whispered hoarsely into the yawning abyss of the staircase.
The ringing faded from his ears, and the hall regained its mundane properties. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson laughed at her hair stylist's joke as she scheduled her appointment. Desperately, the doctor struggled to grasp that spectral dumbness of the moment before, a quietude in which perhaps, if he prayed and begged and bargained hard enough, the shades of the deceased could again rejoin the living.
"Sherlock?" he whispered again, more loudly.
And suddenly, the hall was full of whispers, like snakes, chanting Sherlock back to him in a ceaseless cacophony.
Drawing breath sharply, John half-ran back into 221B and slammed the door behind him, slumping against it with a strangled sound. Hope was the thing with feathers, and it lay dead on the bottom of the cage in his soul.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Barely a moment passed before there was a loud thunk against the window. John startled violently, twisting around to stare at the curtains as a hundred scenarios flashed through his head. Images of thugs and men with guns spun past Chinese smugglers and a bloke dressed far too well to be legal as he wondered frantically what had hit the window of his old flat so hard. It did not seem to be a bullet.
Who knew he was here? No one. Mycroft, perhaps, but if the man wanted to see him, John rather doubted that the embodiment of the British government would resort to chucking rocks at apartments. It wasn't nearly cloak-and-dagger enough.
He did not think he had imagined it.
It became obvious he had not when there was a second thud against the window, though this time not quite so hard. Eyes narrowing, John creeped to the window and lifted the corner of the drapes, his other hand drifting towards a gun he no longer carried. He shook himself. It was only wishful thinking to imagine that some gang of criminals would want anything to do with him, for Sherlock was gone and so what use did anybody have for an old army doctor?
Perhaps, in the end, it was only the wind knocking.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
John did not know what he thought to see outside, but even so, reality failed to meet his vague expectations.
It was a bird - a crow - of the sort that so infamously makes its home near the Tower. With an indignant squawk, it tried for the third time to fly through the window and bashed its head on the glass. Frowning, John slid back the pane and tried to shoo the creature away, but the impertinent thing snapped at his fingers and slipped in through the opening, proceeding to fly across the living room.
It settled neatly on the fireplace mantle, and with much ruffling of its feathers made itself at home. Hopping around the mass of clutter, the crow at last settled itself on Sherlock's old skull and blinked its beady eyes defiantly at the doctor. John raised his hands as if to chase it off again, sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose instead. What did the bird matter? He was supposed to be cleaning, not bothering the local wildlife. Mrs. Hudson could deal with it.
As if in agreement, the crow beat its wings twice and rubbed its beak against the skull. It was a handsome creature, straight out of a children's story, with glossy plumage and wicked talons. John scoffed lightly and crossed his arms watching it. Perhaps, if nothing else, it might provide him a welcome distraction.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
The doctor cast his eyes around the room. They alighted on a ceramic mug, resting on the desk. He picked it up; there was the remnants of some drink or experiment in the bottom, but what it was, he could not make out with the mass of whitish fuzz growing over it.
"Lovely," John muttered.
He headed toward the kitchen, pausing as he passed the crow.
"I used to make him tea in this," John informed it, gesturing toward the green vessel. "Half the time, he wouldn't even drink it. Ungrateful prick."
John wandered over to the sink and scrubbed the mold out from the mug, scraping at the inside with the brush long after the last of the fuzz had disappeared down the drain. When he finished, he dried it carefully and carried it back out into the living room.
"That's the first thing I've managed to clean all day," he said seriously. "Mrs. Hudson's going to be none too happy." He paused. Then he added, "I'm talking to a bird."
With a small shake of his head, he set the cup down and observed his avian visitor. The crow cocked its head and seemed to consider him back.
"And what do you see?" John wondered aloud. "A washed-up surgeon? A pathetic old soldier? Huh." He scuffed the floor with his heel. "It's all the same, anyway."
The crow yawned and straightened a feather with his beak.
John arched an eyebrow. "What should I call you, then? Edgar?"
Fluffing its feathers, the bird expressed its disdain for the entire conversation.
"Yeah, you've got a point," the blonde man said, turning back to face the rest of the room. He picked a stack of notebooks up off the side table, and he dropped them with a shower of dust into a cardboard box.
Behind him, the crow let out a single raucous cry.
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
John jumped at the bird's croaking call, and then again as without preamble, Mrs. Hudson tottered through the unlocked door, balancing a tray of tea and biscuits on her hip.
"Oh, John, dear," the landlady sighed, surveying the room. "You haven't managed to pack a thing, have you?"
The doctor indicated the box. "Only a few notepads, I'm afraid."
Mrs. Hudson set the tray down on the kitchen table and came to where she could lay a gentle hand on John's shoulder. "It's alright, dear," she murmured. "Lord knows it's been hard on you. Take all the time you need."
Behind them, the crow scuttled across the top of the skull. Hearing the clicking of talons on bone, Mrs. Hudson turned her head and jerked in surprise.
"Gracious," she said. "How did a bird get in here? I thought maybe it was mice. We had a nest, you know. Made a right mess all over my kitchen floor."
John shrugged. "It came through the window. I hadn't the heart to throw it out."
The landlady gave it another reproving glance. "Well, it can't stay," she said firmly. "Chase it back outside when you've finished, okay dear?"
The doctor gave a half-hearted shrug and crossed to the table, lifting a biscuit from the tray and nibbling it without appetite. As the door closed on Mrs. Hudson's too-cheerful, "I'll be just downstairs," John regarded the crow and his brow furrowed.
"I don't want to put him outside," he muttered. It was irrational, petulant, even, and a small smile crossed his face because Sherlock would surely say the same thing when he saw -
Sherlock.
The hand that replaced the half-eaten biscuit on the platter was trembling badly.
"I won't let you leave," John growled under his breath, staring at the space between him and the tabletop. "I won't let you go."
On the mantle, the crow tilted its head away, seeming to realize that John was no longer referring to it and losing interest as a result.
"Why did you leave?" the doctor whispered.
Hope was the thing with feathers, and sore indeed must be the Fall to abash that little bird.
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
Shaking himself, pushing back the tide of emotion that threatened to engulf him once more, John strode to his armchair and dropped into it, sipping a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea in the hopes that it might settle his nerves. To his left, the crow cawed again.
"What do you want?" John grumbled. "The window's there. Go on. Off you get."
The bird, however, had no intention of going back out into the icy London winter. The doctor stared absently at it.
Sherlock's hair had been that color, he realized. The crow's feathers held just that same bluish undertone within their black iridescence. And perhaps Sherlock would have even liked the creature, he thought, what with how the raven stood for intellect and memory.
It further occurred to John that the detective would never have let him equate ravens with crows; doubtless, Sherlock would have given some scathing analysis of the entire Corvidae family and the precise mythologies which gave them their mystical associations.
To the Norse, they were Odin's eyes and ears, Huginn and Muninn -
To the Hindus, a messenger from the ancestral realm -
To the Haida, Creator and Trickster -
To the Yakuts, war and violence -
And to the Celts, the Lady Morrígan's ravens heralded destruction, bloodshed, and cataclysmic death -
John started from his reverie with a shock. The crow was staring at him from its place on the skull - and why the skull? - with a look that seemed to John downright malevolent. What did it want, he wondered, that it should sit there, of all places, to tug and torment his heartstrings?
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
Lost in the meanderings of his thoughts, the walls seemed to cave in around the doctor, the air growing thicker in his lungs with every breath. It was foolish that the bird should remind him so violently of Sherlock, and yet perhaps it ought not have been a surprise, because it seemed that everything, examined in the right frame of mind, held that dismal power.
And it was surely ludicrous to even entertain the notion that the crow was some ethereal messenger from beyond the grave, but whether it was the wind outside soughing through the naked limbs of the trees, or if the dull shadows cast by the coals in the fireplace bespoke that circle of Dante's reserved for those who take their own life, the crow's gaze held too much knowing mockery in its look to attribute in that moment to any mortal creature.
"Well?" John asked mordantly. "Anything to say for yourself?"
The bird regarded him silently.
"What are you doing here?" he asked more angrily. "Tell me why I have to sit here, alone, talking to a bloody bird and a skull. Tell me why he's dead. Why him? Why not me? Damn it all - why?!"
Startled by the sudden exclamation, the crow gave a caw of displeasure and shuffled backwards on its perch.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Is that the best that you've got?" John asked, standing stiffly. "Is that all you have to say? Is there no god in heaven to give a damn that the greatest man who ever lived is dead? Tell me that Sherlock dying was not my fault. Or convince me that it was all an elaborate plot, and that he's going to come breezing in tomorrow morning without having bought the milk. Let me believe he's alive, or let me find peace with his death, but damn this grief! Damn these sleepless nights! Damn all of it! Well?"
The crow had creeped back so far that its talons were losing purchase on the bone. It gave a defiant cry and relieved itself messily.
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"That does it!" John shouted. "You fly in here, you hop around like a twat, you make me feel like shit, and now you crap on my mantle place? Get the hell out."
He dove at the bird, grabbing at feathers. For a moment, there was a minute set of ribs clasped beneath his fingers; then a thick beak stabbed at his flesh, and with a grunt of pain, John's hand recoiled and the disgruntled bird flew across the room, feathers flying everywhere, and landing on the curtain rod above the window.
The doctor looked down at his hand. Blood was welling up where the bird had pecked him in the fleshy part of his thumb, and a few additional scratches suggested that its talons had put some work in as well.
With a hateful glare, John narrowed his eyes in the crow's direction. The bird spread its wings and cawed mournfully.
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Bandaging his hand with supplies from the kitchen, John returned to the living room to find the bird, calmed somewhat, watching him warily from above the window. The doctor sank into his chair, and plucked a jet colored feather from where it had landed on the cushion, twirling it between his fingers.
The firelight cast the crow's silhouette across the damask wallpaper, and it looked all the more menacing for it.
A gasp of frigid December air blew in through the curtains, and the fire guttered in the grate. John stared at the feather, every one of the barbs the shade of Sherlock's hair, and the hollow shaft as pale as his porcelain skin.
His hand convulsed, crushing the diaphanous appendage, and a breath ripped through his chest.
In the fading light, John sat, weeping quietly over wounds that never truly closed.
Sherlock was gone.
And the despair the detective left in his wake would be healed...
Nevermore.