At Last I See The Light, a sherlock fanfic

At Last I See The Light

Sherlock stumbled along a sticky, black wall, sinking deeper into the shadows of the alley. His legs gave out a few feet from the back door of a Chinese restaurant long since closed for business.

Pressing his back against the grimy brick, he squeezed his burning eyes shut and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees.

God, he was so tired, he could probably drift off right now, despite the late night traffic noises, distant sirens, and the ominous scuttling from a nearby trash bag. It probably wasn't a good idea. One of the goons he'd been running away from had landed a solid blow to the back of his head, and although he was fairly certain he was alright, it would be just his luck to wake up dead in the morning.

He wondered idly if any of the group of thugs would serve time for their part in his death. Most likely not. He could see the police report now:

Male, approximately 25 years old, found deceased. Obvious signs of drug abuse. Cause of death: blow to the back of the head caused swelling, intercranial bleeding et cetera, et cetera. Off the record conclusion: Dumb kid probably shot up and knocked his head too hard. Stupid junkie, doesn't he know better?

No charges would be laid. No foul play would even be suspected. Idiots. Perhaps Mycroft would make it all go away to save the blemish on his family tree.

Meanwhile, Sherlock will have died in his sleep in a disgusting backstreet, all because he couldn't keep his mouth shut around a drunk serial adulterer with ties to the local gang.

His knuckles throbbed, almost as painfully as his head. He brushed away a spot of sticky, drying blood from his middle finger and wondered how the hell he'd gotten here, or, a better question, what was he supposed to do now?

He couldn't go back to uni, that was a certainty. The doors of his former school were forever closed to him since his nosy roommate had found his solution in his desk. He couldn't say he was saddened by his abrupt departure from the school that was only boring him to death anyway, but that also meant he had no place to stay.

He'd slept on Victor's couch for a while, but when that had blown up in his face, he'd found himself in a pub, of all places, irritable, out of money and seated next to a group of noisy, ill-mannered cretins who'd jostled him and made fun of his "poncy" accent when he'd complained.

So, he found himself here, broke, homeless, possibly concussed and crashing hard as the last of his high left him.

That was the last part that stung the most. He could no longer explain to Mycroft with conviction that it was just for brain work, a little premium fuel for his Mercedes Benz of a brain. He hadn't needed it, or been addicted, it was just every once in a while, no need to fret like an old school marm over nothing.

Not so anymore. He pined for another hit with a ferocity that sickened him, or perhaps that was just the first stages of detox. Either way, he felt the bile rise in his throat, and he sucked in the chilly air to stave off the waves of nausea.

He looked up to the sky, searching for anything to distract himself from the stench of the trash and filth surrounding him, and the roiling, greasy knot churning in his empty stomach.

To his surprise, the dark beige fog that usually covered London at night had parted, just a little bit, over his head. A smattering of weakly shining stars valiantly peeked through the perpetual haze of the city.

He'd had a nanny once, he remembered, who used to make him wish on a star every night before he was sent to his bed to stare at the ceiling for hours until he bored himself to sleep.

Pick one, she'd say, and wish with all your might, for what you want most in the world. According to her, if you tried hard enough, one day, your wishes would reach that star and it would give you what you want.

8 year old Sherlock had laughed, and tried to explain to the silly woman that stars were non-sentient balls of flaming gas, millions of light years away, and that they couldn't possibly hear a few insignificant wishes from Earth.

The nanny had just smiled, and insisted he make his wish, and though he'd complained every night, he'd secretly looked forward to the ritual of kneeling in front of the big bay windows of his bedroom and looking for the star he was almost positive he found every night.

The nice memory was tarnished, however, by the evening the following year, when he'd knelt and wished and prayed as hard as he possibly could that the nanny wouldn't let him get sent away to boarding school in the morning, to no avail. He'd cursed and yelled at her as he'd been led away and he'd never wished on another star again, not once.

He wished now, on the brightest of the cluster of stars above him.

Please. Please, let someone come and save me. I've messed everything up, I know it. I just need some help and I can't bear to grovel at Mycroft's feet and ask him to fix everything, and see his smug face when he sees what a cock up I've made of my life. Please, someone help.

He felt himself get sucked into sleep, dragged down while he wished and wished.

Please.

Please…

Send help.

***

He woke up the next morning, his head splitting, limbs shaking and weak, and immediately vomited on the ground next to him.

As he choked, coughed and tried to clear his vision, he felt the anger at himself rising. He'd gotten himself this far. He would get himself out of it, too.

He didn't need Mycroft, or Victor, or anyone else.

And he definitely didn't need a stupid star to wish on.

***

6 Years Later…

Thump. "Oof."

Sherlock straightened in his chair at the cluttered table, distracted from his microscope by the odd sound. He could have sworn it had come from the upstairs bedroom, an area that had been mostly disused since he moved into 221B Baker Street.

Thump.

There it was again. The location of the noise was unmistakable. He rose from his seat, grabbing a nearby frying pan to use as a weapon. As he padded toward the stairs, his mind raced with questions.

How had an intruder gotten up there? He wasn't so absorbed in his slides that he wouldn't notice someone slipping by him. The building on that side had no fire escape near it, and the walls were too thick to have been breached without a tremendous amount of noise, again, not something he'd be able to ignore.

Bump. Scuff. "Ugh."

The muffled voice sounded like it came from a man, but he couldn't be sure, with only a few syllables to go on. He held his frying pan at the ready as he ascended the stairs, fully prepared to deliver a stunning blow, should the intruder become aggressive.

He slowly turned the handle on the door, and eased it open a few inches, expecting a black-clad thief, or one of Mycroft's goons.

What he actually saw was a naked man, face down on the floor, his foot caught in the cardboard box of Christmas lights Mrs. Hudson had been storing in the unoccupied bedroom.

These observations were, of course, noted by Sherlock's analytical brain. However, the only thing that really caught Sherlock's attention was the fact that the man was… glowing.

"Augh, bloody…thing!"

The man managed to flip himself onto this back and sat up to use his hands to disentangle his foot from the mass of wire. So intent was he on his task, that he didn't notice Sherlock opening the door wider to get a better look.

The glow was undeniable. Every inch of the man's smooth, unblemished skin emanated a warm, golden light, that rippled and swelled under the surface like he'd swallowed a small sun. The light cast flickering shadows on the grey walls of the bedroom, filling the dusty corners and dancing on the ceiling.

"Oh. Hello, there!"

Sherlock had been so distracted by the visual hallucination, he'd completely forgotten that he may have been witnessing the world's clumsiest home invasion. Or, maybe not. The stranger was smiling up at Sherlock from his seat on the floor, looking like the most unthreatening(non-threatening?) person he'd ever seen.

It couldn't hurt to be careful, though, he decided, and pointed his frying pan at the stranger.

"Who are you, and why are you in my flat?" he asked, pinning him with a cold glare, while trying not to be distracted by the dancing lights still plaguing his vision.

"I'm John," he said, and pushed to his feet, finally free of the string of lights, "and you're Sherlock, yes?"

Sherlock blinked and tracked John's progress with his makeshift weapon. He hadn't discounted the idea that this conversation was entirely a product of his imagination. It seemed a likely explanation for the sudden appearance of a golden-skinned man in his upstairs bedroom.

"I am," he answered, anyway, willing to see where his brain took him.

The delusion certainly felt real. What was causing it, he wondered. Was it chemical? Physical? Had some condition decided to manifest itself through astonishingly vivid waking dreams of handsome, naked men with glowing skin and shiny blond hair?

He was a bit disappointed, honestly. As hallucinations went, it wasn't particularly impressive, or interesting.

John smiled wider, and ran a hand through his spiky hair with an expression of relief. "Oh, fantastic. I was a bit worried. Had a bit of a rough landing, you know."

"Rough…landing?" Sherlock repeated.

"Yeah, that's why I'm a bit late." John shuffled his bare feet and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry about that, by the way. How long ago did you wish?"

"Wish what?" he asked, feeling uncharacteristically confused by this whole conversation, and not liking it one bit.

John rolled his eyes and gestured vaguely to the ceiling. "You know…wish. On a star? Mine, to be exact, and thanks for that. I was getting bored stiff up there."

"What the hell are you on about?" Really, the least his mind could do when it decided to malfunction was provide Sherlock with an interesting fantasy. This was just getting absurd.

"You made a wish. On a star, probably not too long ago, wished for some help, right? Someone to help you. I got a bit delayed, but I'm here now, and I'm going to help you."

John's deep blue eyes were wide and earnest and his friendly smile turned Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock felt a curl of ice unfurl in in chest.

Memories of a long ago night flickered from the depths of his Mind Palace.

Filth-covered walls, the stench of rotting garbage, throbbing pain, nausea, withdrawal symptoms…a flickering star high above the misery, peeking through the foul haze of cloud.

Turning on his heel, Sherlock slammed the door on the imaginary man and pressed his back against the wooden panels. He took a few deep breaths to tamp down the familiar jumble of anger and regret he felt whenever he was reminded of the months before and after his departure from university.

It had been many years since he'd pulled himself up from the drug-fueled turmoil of his twenties, and at least a few years since he'd thought of that particular night when he'd begged a celestial body for help that never came.

Why would Sherlock's subconscious rehash that embarrassing and painful set of memories? He didn't know, but he'd be damned if he'd stand like a fool with a frying pan in his hand on the empty staircase to the empty upstairs bedroom a moment longer.

He descended the stairs heavily, stalked into the kitchen to dump the pan in the sink, then sank into the chair in front of his microscope, determined to ignore any further hallucinations, at least for today.

"Yoo hoo! Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's light footsteps on the stairs announced her presence and Sherlock rose once again to open the door for her.

"What is it?" he asked, eager to send her on her way so that he could work on his experiment in peace.

"I've reading the paper, dear. Those serial suicides? Have you seen the article?"

"Yes, yes, of course I have," he said, recalling browsing a piece about Lestrade's latest case. "What about it?"

"I just wondered if you'd been investigating. It sounded right up your street—Oh, my goodness!" she squeaked.

Sherlock whipped his head in the direction of his landlady's exclamation, and gaped at the still-naked, no longer glowing form of John who had silently come downstairs and was currently flashing his annoyingly friendly smile at Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello, there. Good to meet you, I'm John," he said, unaware, or uncaring that she was blushing red and fluttering her hands nervously, despite her former status as a married woman.

"Ah, you, as well, John. I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady," she stammered, determinedly not looking anywhere but his face. She turned her back to him and whispered fiercely at Sherlock, "you didn't tell me you had company! Give a woman a bit of warning, Sherlock, really!"

"I—." He stalled, his mind still frozen at the realization that she could see John. Was it possible he wasn't a figment of his imagination? Mrs. Hudson certainly seemed real, and had referenced a news story he'd only just looked at, himself. "I'm sorry?"

"You know I'd love to meet any of your friends, dear," she continued, patting his arm kindly. "Once they have all their clothing on, preferably."

"Oh, I haven't got any," John inserted, cheerfully, unabashedly eavesdropping on Mrs. Hudson's whispering.

She blinked, confused. "What do you mean? You didn't walk here starkers, did you?

"Well, actually," John began.

Sherlock interrupted, "He lost them in an experiment gone wrong. Bad luck, but couldn't be helped, unfortunately. Have you any extras he could borrow, in fact?" he asked, hopefully, "something of Mr. Hudson's, perhaps?"

"Well, I suppose I might," she said, thoughtfully. "I'll go look around, back in a tic."

Off she went, down the stairs, and Sherlock turned to John, re-evaluating the threat that he posed, as an affable, vulnerable house breaker.

Frowning, he listed the few observations he was able to make. Male, average build, shorter than average height. Not a body builder, but not unfit either. Hair short, but un-styled. Did this indicate low vanity or simply a lack of time or products? He couldn't tell.

The absence of clothing was a problem, taking away a huge amount of variables for him to evaluate. He was a bare canvas, leaving Sherlock to base his deductions solely on the state of his skin, which was also infuriatingly blank.

From a few feet away, he could see that John's hands were uncallused, so there were no hints at a possible profession there. His face was completely unlined, despite the frequency of his smile, so it was difficult to even tell his age, although, the way he carried himself and some unidentifiable air about him made Sherlock think of antique statues and ancient land formations.

Old.

John, with his unlined face and smallish body seemed as if he should be wizened with age.

John started wandering slowly around the sitting room, periodically picking up a photo frame or an abandoned tea cup and turning it around in his hands, looking at it from every angle.

As he roamed, under Sherlock's scrutiny, the glow under his skin started to come back, leeching from his torso, and down his limbs. Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson nearing the top of the stairs, and he rushed to intercept her before she reached the doorway.

Plucking the pile of clothes from her arms, he smiled tightly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I'll take it from here," he said, and shut the door in the face of her response.

"Here," he said, and dropped the jeans and lumpy, oatmeal-coloured jumper on the armchair closest to where John was closely inspecting the skull on the mantel.

"Cheers," he said, and set about pulling on the too-loose clothing.

While John covered himself, Sherlock pulled out his phone from his jacket pocket and sent a text to Mycroft.

Do you still have cameras in Baker Street?

The reply was swift.

You asked me to remove them.

Don't deflect. I need to know now.

Above the fireplace.

Perfect. I need you to tell me if there is a man in my home.

The response was a little slower this time, presumably since Mycroft wasn't watching the feed of his brother's flat 24/7. John finished donning the outfit and settled comfortably in the plush armchair. He looked perfectly content to stay there, softly shining, in the middle of Sherlock's living room, despite never having been actually invited, or having fully explained his reason for being there.

His phone beeped with Mycroft's reply.

Confirmed. There is an unidentified person in your flat.

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief. Another person could see John, that meant that odds were lower that he was a hallucination.

However, there is also some interference with the video feed. The image is clear, but there's a bit of colour distortion. I'll have someone replace the camera as soon as possible.

Don't you dare. Remove them immediately. I need you to run a background check on him. He says his name is John.

I am not your errand boy, Sherlock.

Just do it.

He tucked his mobile away without waiting for a response and walked the short distance to perch in his favourite armchair.

He kept his silence for a few minutes, observing John, who was seated in the arm chair and craning his neck, looking around the cluttered room. The ticking of the wall clock was oppressive in its volume in the quiet room.

Sherlock chafed at the self-imposed silence, and felt more annoyed by the minute by the fact that John wasn't bothered in the least. He seemed perfectly happy not to converse with the stranger whose home he'd invaded.

John seemed to suddenly realize that Sherlock was observing him rather closely, but still didn't shift uncomfortably or try to initiate a conversation. He just pleasantly waited, looking into Sherlock's eyes in a penetrating way that should have made him want to look away, but instead he found he could probably look into John's eyes all afternoon and not grow tired of the warm, steady pools of deep blue.

A beep of his phone shook him from his daze and he fumbled for the device.

As far as my records can tell, he does not exist. I have no record of him being anywhere at any time. Where did you find him?

None of your business.

He turned off the ringer and pocketed the mobile, then steepled his fingers under his chin.

"So, John," he started.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John said, merrily.

Sherlock frowned, and narrowed his eyes. "How did you know my name? Up there, I never told it to you. Did you look on the website?"

John looked a bit confused. "The what? No, I just knew. I could hear it. Along with your wish."

The bloody wish again. Perhaps it was John who was the brain damaged one.

"Explain to me this wish you think you've heard. I still don't understand why you're here."

John rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, then sobered. "I heard your voice asking for help. You were alone and in pain, in an alley, was it? I couldn't see clearly. You must have been wishing bloody hard for me to hear you on a cloudy night like that. But, luckily, you broke through, and here I am. I'm your help."

Sherlock swallowed, floored. No one knew about that night, he'd made sure of it. Not even Mycroft knew the circumstances of when he hit rock bottom, and he certainly wasn't going to offer up any details.

So, how could this unassuming man know the things he knew?

It was obvious from his body language that he believed what he said was true. He wasn't lying, or at least, not on purpose. Was he mentally ill? Good at guessing? Sherlock had no idea, and it infuriated him.

Eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The philosophy he'd long held forced him to look at all the facts that he had:

1. John had appeared out of nowhere, in a room no one could enter without Sherlock's knowledge, yet he'd not been seen.

2. He'd had no identifying marks of any kind, and he wasn't in Mycroft's records. It was like he hadn't existed before today.

3. The damn glow. It hadn't diminished since Mrs. Hudson had departed, and taunted Sherlock with it's impossible existence.

Hmm. Improbable? Yes. Impossible?

…Perhaps not.

"So let me get this straight," Sherlock said, cautiously, "you would have be believe that you are the human personification of a fallen star."

"Yes," John confirmed.

"Preposterous," Sherlock spat, immediately.

"Why?" he challenged.

"Such a phenomenon has never been reported."

"Unsurprising, really. If you started telling people a fallen star appeared in your flat, they'd think you were a raving lunatic."

Sherlock huffed a surprised laugh. It sounded so believable, when put like that. He wasn't fully convinced, but he decided to humour him.

"If you're from space, why do you sound British?" he asked.

"Do I? I had no idea." John looked genuinely surprised.

"Yes, you do. Your speech patterns and command of the language suggest you've been speaking it for a long time. How do you explain that?"

"Well, I heard a lot of talking, up there," John gestured vaguely to the sky. "And I heard a lot of people. But you, and the people in your vicinity, were loudest. You felt the most comfortable."

He shrugged. "It happens to all of us. Ease of access, I guess. Wouldn't do to land next to an Englishman when you only speak Polish, would it?"

"I suppose not," Sherlock allowed.

"I really am sorry I'm late, you know," he said, nervously rubbing the tops of his thighs. "I ran into a satellite, and I had to find my way back. How long has it been, exactly?"

"I made that wish six years ago."

The change was astonishing. John's self-deprecating grin faded into an expression of such abject horror that Sherlock nearly laughed. The dropped jaw and comically widened eyes were like a cartoon. His shoulders slumped, his light dimmed and it took several seconds for him to regain the ability to speak.

"Six...six years?" he breathed.

"Yep," Sherlock said, his pronunciation exaggeratedly crisp.

John stared at him for a few moments, as if waiting for Sherlock to laugh and say he was joking, and it had really only been or fortnight. When he saw that none such reassurance was forthcoming, he collapsed back into his armchair and scrubbed his face hard with his hands, jostling the shadows cast by the golden glow of his countenance.

"Bloody hell," he groaned, and let his arms fall to his sides in dejection. "Damn stupid air space and it's goddamn bloody traffic."

Sherlock's brows rose as John continued to curse under his breath. Apparently his star got a bit sweary when riled.

His star? Sherlock could hear his brother's voice in his head: Possessive pronouns already? Dear me, Sherlock.

John presumably ran through his entire repertoire of curses, and leaned forward in his chair.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. Time gets all messed up when you're in the void. I was supposed to be there for you, and I let you down."

He looked so upset, his normally placid face twisted with regret so palpable that Sherlock felt an unusual urge to console him.

"It's alright, John," he tried, stretching his arm to pat him lightly on the shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "As it turned out, I didn't need your help after all. I'm here, aren't I? I survived."

John's considered Sherlock, running his eyes over him as his earlier, now familiar, grin came back. "You did, didn't you? I'm so glad."

"Are you? Why? You barely know me."

"Oh, that's not true at all. I know you, Sherlock." His affable demeanor was suddenly replaced by a stillness in his body and a penetrating look in his eyes that made Sherlock's stomach sink at the same time as his heart leapt. In the space of a moment, John's pupils became bottomless, the dark orbs strangely blank except for a faint, twinkling band of far away constellations. Sherlock felt the pull of the void, though he hadn't moved an inch. "I may have only heard your voice for a few minutes, but that was long enough for me to know you."

John blinked and the galaxy was gone. "So, what have you been doing all this time? Six years…Christ." He shook his head again and expectantly looked to Sherlock.

"I…" Sherlock abruptly recalled that he was in the middle of his sitting room in London, not somewhere in the Milky Way. "You really want to know?"

"Yes, of course," John said, sincerely.

"I became something of a detective," he started, and haltingly launched into the story of how he'd badgered every member of the police force until he'd found one to finally listen.

Those stories turned into retellings of his first few case, which led to tales about all the most interesting cases since. All the while Sherlock spoke, John chimed in with laughter and gasps and commiserating noises, with brilliants and amazings thrown in for good measure. Each expression of awe and fascination was as genuine as the last, and Sherlock lost himself in the appreciative audience that John provided.

Loud footsteps on the stairs interrupted a particularly suspenseful murder, and Sherlock was surprised to notice that both he and John had slid to the edge of their seats, leaning in closer, as if the proximity would somehow make the story even more interesting.

Lestrade stamped into the room, already brandishing a case file. He drew a breath to ask Sherlock to consider taking a look at the crime scene, but stopped when he saw John, who'd turned off the light of his skin at the sound of the detective's entrance.

"Oh, sorry, I can, um…" he stammered, apparently floored by the presence of Sherlock's guest. "I can come back, if you want."

"No, it's fine," he drawled and took the folder from Lestrade to browse the contents. It was the serial suicides, just as he'd thought, and he tried to keep the excited grin off his face.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked, impatiently.

"I suppose," he replied, feigning a put-upon sigh.

"Right, I'll text you the address," he said, then nodded to John before bounding back down the stairs.

Sherlock leapt from his chair as soon as he heard the door close behind him, and quickly donned his coat. He checked his mobile for the promised text from Lestrade, then paused in the act of unlocking the keyboard, and looked up at John.

He was still seated in the armchair, an unreadable blankness on his unlined face. The only thing that gave away his discomfort was the tapping of his fingers against the armrests.

"You're on your way, then?" he stated the obvious.

"Yes. Things to do, serial killers to catch, and all that," he joked. "Will you be here when I get back? You're welcome to stay."

"Nah, I can't. I'm a helper, by nature," John explained, "can't be idle for too long. I'll probably be back up there by the time you get back."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock was surprised at the wave of disappointment that dampened the excitement of a new case. His phone beeped with the incoming address he needed. "Well then. Goodbye, John. Your visit has been…enlightening."

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he replied, quietly, his smile dimmer than it had been before. The warm light he'd been casting hadn't returned after Lestrade's departure, but Sherlock had a feeling if it had, it wouldn't be a bright now as it had been before.

With a last parting nod, Sherlock turned to go.

A spark in the edge of his vision caught his eye and he looked a bit closer at the surface of the stairs to the bedroom.

A fine layer of softly shimmering dust in the shape of John's bare foot adorned the middle of each stair, and continued across the floor to where he'd explored the trinkets on the fireplace and finally sat down.

For some odd reason, the sight of the footprints made the centre of Sherlock's chest go warm, and he smiled at the sheer absurdity of the events of today.

John, the supposed fallen star, the perpetually cheerful, impossibly glowing man, had left a sparking trail of stardust through his flat, and all he could think of was what Mrs. Hudson was going to think when she next came up to clean.

"John," he said cautiously, and turned back around.

"Yeah?" the star said, and stood up.

"Now that I think on it, I could use your help," he said, trying to keep the embarrassing hopefulness out of his voice. "I am in need of an assistant, someone to accompany to crime scenes."

John's face brightened. "Sure, I could do that!"

Sherlock's happy relief nearly overwhelmed him.

"I really just need someone to stand next to me while I theorize out loud," he warned. "It'll probably be boring."

John raised an eyebrow and gave him an arch look. "More boring than floating around in space for ages?"

Sherlock barked a surprised laugh. "No, I suppose not."

"Alright, then. I'll tag along. You never know when you might need me to lend a hand."

"Exactly. Hopefully it won't take you six years to come to my aid, this time," he shot, over his shoulder.

John scowled, but couldn't quite stifle the laughter in his voice, "That's a low blow, Sherlock."

As they descended the stairs, located a pair of shoes for John, and set off down the street, bickering and laughing like old friends, the stars above them, hidden by the cloudy London skies, gleamed a little brighter.