Evening and Morning~
For the Lord Himself, and The Lady of the Fandoms, who both knew, and loved me at my darkest.~
The rain is leaping from the rooftops of heaven, even as he leapt. And storm clouds billow on the street, even as his blood rose up with a cry from the pavement.
And all his sacrificed blood, rises to the bridle of the horses of sleep. And the tabloids pick up the feathers of Icarus' shed wings. To mock him, since he fell from the sky, a third time. They say the third time's a charm...
John knows this is a dream. Yet it feels more real than waking. The cool of the rain sinks beneath his skin, like the poison. Soothing, like the intravenous escape that Sherlock used to turn to. But the drugs are deceitful, and the wine is only ever going to mock. Just wants you to spill some blood for the tabloids, just wants to see a bit of skin from under your sleeve, for the paparazzi to expose.
On the Evening of Judgement, when all of his sins are exposed, like wolves pull an old deer's bones apart, when everything that ever was wrong and rotten comes out of the sepluchres of the Tombs of the Mindpalace, and John should be angry, he isn't. Tonight would be the perfect night to judge Sherlock. He's exposed like a nerve in the eye of his dream. Everything he did before and after St. Bartholomew's...
In this dream, John and Sherlock are hand-cuffed to one another again. And John is pulling at Sherlock from the other side of the iron bars of an old gate. It's a dark night, just as it had been all those long , dark nights ago. But this time it's raining...
And there is a roll of thunder, as if God is trying to comfort the rain, in the midst of his suicide. And John realizes that Sherlock with the dark cloud of hair over his pale face, has always been the Night, the Storm, sliding through London like wind, silent and sad. And misunderstood...
This time is diffrent. Their words are diffrent now.
"We need to leave..."John says, quietly pleading with the wild -eyed- storm-bringer to just come away with him, to darkness and safety, and the secret place of God's shadow, where the tounge-lashed souls can rest.
Sherlock's eyes are filled with pain, as if lightning is being injected through a tiny, iron needle, right up his spine, slowly but surely burning him from the core outward.
"You can't save me, John. There 's only one place where I can ever be free. Only one place where I can be equal to all of them. Where they can't misuse me anymore. I will only be of any value to this world, when I am stowed away...In The Grave there are no tabloids, only obituaries there...So,that is where I'm going..."
"Yeah, and what am I supposed to do, huh? Just let you?..."
"I would like very much if you would simply forget my name..."
And John tugged against the cold, heavy chain that held the two of them together. Sherlock's eyes blazed with pain, as a car ,driving past somewhere on the rain-drenched grey street, illuminated his face with its headlights. Eyes that were tired of holding on. Ready to leap...
Only one reason why Sherlock would jump. Of course, John knew in his bones the real why. It was to save him. Sherlock has been exposed, and now he confesses:
"Everything I have ever done, misguided maybe or not, has been for you. To keep you safe. To make it right. Because you are the Light, you are the Day. And England, and the world for that matter, needs the justice,the clarity, the unbiased view of pure light..." he grits his teeth.
"The Night works with every gasping breath, to see that the Day has his Dawn. And then it gives up said breath, to give the day rise. Night is born to fall. Begins to end. Dies so you can live..."Sherlock's breath rattles, like he is giving up."I have done my work, and now you don't need me anymore...So, now I will fall. I will end, and with the red rise of my blood, there will be fair weather for the morning. 'Red skies at night, are a sailor's delight' you know..."
John tugs at the chain. They stand on a very thin and shaking wire of sound. Any wrong move, and Sherlock will fall, before he can haul him back through these bars.
"No, you've got that backwards. The Day lives to give the Night his peace. And with every hour, the light spills its shining blood, in streams of the sun,and gives the last of its strength, so the Night can rest in peace. And listen to me, for God's sakes, because God Himself is speaking to you from out of the thunder and rain if you'd only listen! You don't have to die to be valuable. You are already priceless to me!...I value you above my blood, above my sunset, and if you fall, guess I'm falling too..."
Sherlock swallows. Both of them are on the verge of ending this nightmare.
"You are evening, and I am morning, you are dark and I am light, but together we make up the Day. There is never a reason for you to go...because I will always need you. More vital than breath, and blood ,are you to me. I need you because you balance the very scales of reality for me. A Day is nothing without his Night. The Light can't exist without it's Darkness...If you stop, then I stop. If you jump,I'm going down with you. We're chained together, you idiot, so if you crash and burn, there by the grace of God ,go I. Because we are more than friends. We are brothers. Like twins. I will not live without you. I can't."
Before John's eyes, Sherlock's pain ceased. Not his life. Life isn't pain. And even though the press had made his living a sheer hell, it would be different now. They had closed all the doorways out. But they were too stupid to know,the secret to escape is from the inside. A place so deep, no sword can pierce. Only God can let you in that deep, only God can go there. And he had lead John down there, to that deep, dark soul in need of saving.
~At just that moment ,the two men, more brothers than friends, woke up, in opposite rooms of their apartment, but knowing somehow they had dreamed the same dream. The press had ruined them. Broken up their lives, ruined John's marriage to the woman- of- his- soul, Mary. Had created all kinds of scenarios,in which Sherlock and John were lovers, and murderers, and thieves, and con-artists, and kidnappers, and the list continued growing. Every time they helped someone, without failure,the Curse of the Press, turned it into something false, to some kind of crime they had miraculously managed to get away with ,again.
And the notes had started coming then, "Why don't you jump for real?" they said. "Humpty Dumpty, give us a call, when you're ready for your Great Fall."
If you continually abuse the person who works for you, eventually they just don't come back in. It's like a tired horse, if you run him too long and hard , he will fall in the field, and not rise. And for weeks now John watched as Sherlock slipped into exhausted despair...
And it had come as no suprise, but still like being broadsided, when John overheard Sherlock say to Caroline the Skull, " I wouldn't mind taking them up on this offer...but John, you see...
I stay because of him. It's like he's holding me hostage here...I can't leave him, Caroline, or otherwise I'd have already gone back to that rooftop seven times ago..."
And that was the day John had sworn on the blood pounding in his head that Sherlock would live through this written mutilation.
Tonight, they woke from the same troubled dream, having drawn the same conclusion, and called each other by name in unsion, and ran to the living room, and were suddenly silent. And blinking rapidly,in confusion.
And then Sherlock's brows furowed , and he said, "Did you?..."
And John replied, "Yes, and did you?"
"Well, obviously I did, or I wouldn't have known to ask..."
They staired, wide-mouthed at each other for a long moment.
Then Sherlock swallowed a sob.
"I'm sorry, John..."
And John laughed hysterically, knowing the shadow of death had passed over now, and Sherlock was safe again. He came and embraced him.
"You know that real suicide means you can't start over...You know that if you go...this time there is no coming back to save the day, eh?"
Sherlock gasped..."Why else do you think I'm still alive?Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble..."
They looked at each other, and laughed.
"Just wonder how you knew?"
"Let's say a little ,boney woman on the mantel told me."
Sherlock turned and smiled, "Thank you, Caroline."
John grabbed Sherlock by the face. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you're here,this time, to stay."
Sherlock smiled,and took John's face in his own hand, locking gaze intensely with him, curling his brows mysteriously.
"Always.." he chuckled, and ruffled his hair, letting him go with a slight stumble.
The two of them turned and slowly walked to the window, noticing that it was still raining,and thundering. Sherlock opened the window, and stuck his face out in the rain for a moment, looking up, looking for Him up there, John knew Who.
He waved, and shouted..."HEY! HEY,up there, You Sir! Thank you! Thank you for saving me!..And for sending me one of Your very best angels! And know this, I will always be on his side!"
"The whole street heard that."John laughed.
"Let them talk..."
John came to the window too, and cried into the rain, "No worries, Mate! I'll fix him, just like You told me! I'll always be here to catch him, if and whenever he falls..."
And the thunder rolled as if in reply, and the torrents stopped, and London was cloaked again in its usual drizzle.
Sherlock shut the window, and laughed, shaking the rain out of his hair,and again John thought of a storm cloud.
"Well, my secrets out, and I'm sorry. Just know I wouldn't do that to you...No matter how bad I may have wanted to..."
John smiled, and nodded."Well, looks like neither of us are going back to sleep on that lovely note. So, sit down, I'll make us some tea. Why don't you put Doctor Who? on the telly, you can pick the episode this time..."
"As long as it's not,"The Angels Take Manhattan" atleast not tonight, I don't care which..."Sherlock laughed, and fell down in a heap on their sofa.
John looked over his shoulder,and thought to himself, "That's it you, that's the most falling you'll be doing from now on..."
The End~