This is the last time
Hello, It's been so long since I've uploaded something on here...oops. This is my attempt at a Sherlock fic. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I don't have any time left to re-write it-College work can be a right pain. Anyway, tell me what you think of it? If its truly terrible I'll try and find sometime to rewrite it.
I'll edit any grammer errors or spelling mistakes that I've missed when I can.
I was inspired to write this after I watched the most recent Sherlock episode and when I heard Eli Lieb's cover of 'Born to Die' by Lana Del Ray.
Choose your last words,
This is the last time.
Because you and I,
We were born to die.
-Born to die by Lana Del Ray.
Disclaimer-Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock.
Warnings: Swearing.
He looked like something straight out of a painting.
A horrific, detailed painting with delicate swirls and patterns of crimson paint splattered in stark contrast against white pale skin; his face marble-like, cold and so, so beautiful.
So, so beautiful.
Sherlock.
Gods Sherlock.
His best friend.
John couldn't look away.
He laid so delicately, so still, two words so surreal, so utterly wrong to associate with Sherlock that John desperately tried to manoeuvre his hand away from the hawk-like clutches of the various people-unimportant people- trying to grasp his hand to touch him.
He needed to touch Sherlock; he needed to know this wasn't real.
He felt his fingertips brush against cold skin; Sherlock didn't have his gloves on, he put a slight pressure on the inside of Sherlock's wrist- his very solid, very real wrist- to search. He needed to find that small, extremely significant thump that signalled that everything was okay, that Sherlock's heart was beating, that Sherlock's mind was still racing. He needed to know that the complete and utter fool that wasn't known as an idiot to anyone but him-and he really was an idiot no matter how many clever deductions he made-was still there, was still alive.
He couldn't find one.
Johns hand went numb as his mind informed him what that entailed, and the other man's hand, Sherlock's hand, dropped from between his fingers and fell limply against the floor. The dull thud as flesh and bone impacted with the pavement echoing in his head.
Sherlock.
Dead?
No.
No, no, Sherlock couldn't be dead. The thought was impossible, wrong. Sherlock was invincible, always had been and always would be.
Sherlock would never leave him behind for something as tiresome as the rubbish that was spat from people's mouths, wouldn't give up breathing- 'Breathing? Breathing's boring.'
No, no Sherlock, you're wrong. So bloody, fucking, wrong. Breathing's important, you bastard; breathe.
Oh god Sherlock, please, please, breathe.
"Please," The pained whisper spilled from his lips without conscious thought, without conscious effort. The person closest to him; a woman his mind supplied- the cheap, strong aroma of perfume on her collar- tried to coax him into resting his head on her shoulder. The fabric felt too scratchy, too inexpensive, too un-Sherlock against his skin that it made John feel sick.
Jesus Christ, Sherlock.
This couldn't be Sherlock.
He couldn't be the man who let himself fall, arms outstretched, limbs flailing and wind blowing through his dark curls as he got closer to his confrontation with the ground. This man couldn't be his best friend, whose grey eyes, framed by black lashes, were usually brimming with the height of intelligence, sparkling with amusement or dulled with unhidden annoyance at the inferior minds of the tedious people around him.
This man's grey eyes were staring unseeingly at nothing.
This couldn't be Sherlock.
Sherlock Holmes would never allow himself to stare aimlessly and blankly at the sky.
"Honestly John," A baritone voice huffed, interrupting John as he stared unblinkingly at the patterned wallpaper. "That you manage to think in coherent sentences is a ridiculous assumption to entertain when you can sit there and stare at the wall aimlessly for the better part of the hour without a proper functional thought passing through your head-"
"What?" John moved his eyes away from the wall, blinking a few times to try and rid himself of his dazed state, and give his flatmate a rather unfocused look.
Sherlock's lips tightened in a displeased frown, eyes raising to the ceiling and giving a slow exhale of air to communicate his annoyance.
"John-" He began in his most condescending and 'I know you're not as intelligent as me so I'm going to treat you as if you possess the simplest mind on the entire planet' tone.
"I only zoned out Sherlock!" John protested; frowning at the insults contained within Sherlock's voice. "It's completely normal-"
"For the inferior majority yes," Sherlock sighed, giving John a steady, meaningful look before turning, and presenting John with a wonderful view of the back of his head, concentrating intensely at the webpage 'Carboxypeptidase A enzyme activity in goat pancreas'-the laptop which John was unsurprised to note, did not belong to its current user.
"Well we can't all be bloody geniuses like you Sherlock!" John replied defensively. "Just because you've got an IQ higher than Einstein himself doesn't mean-"
Sherlock sighed loudly- too loudly to be natural.
'Shut up John,' the sound conveyed.
John sighed too, Sherlock's lips twitched; his reflection on the laptop screen mirroring the action.
'Shut up Sherlock,'
Sherlock would never obey such a boring law as gravity if he didn't want to.
John shivered, attempting to snuggle further into his thin coat and thrust his frozen fingers into his pockets further.
Bloody Sherlock Holmes.
Bloody Murderer's.
Couldn't they think about what the poor detectives-or in this case, the particular poor doctor friends of certain consultant detectives who had been dragged out of their warm beds in the middle of a cold winter's night with the words 'I know where he is! Come on John!' to a place which was apparently a habitual area to where a murderer frequently visited?
John's teeth chattered and his shoulders shook; obviously not.
The murderer that Sherlock and John were currently perusing apparently had a form of obsessive compulsive disorder which, in this case, meant that he needed to have some sort of daily routine, which for the murderer was visiting this particular bridge above a river in the early hours of the morning.
John could only hope that killing and therefore causing the victim to stay in an eternal sleep and for John to be eternally awake was not going to become a part of that daily routine if Sherlock didn't manage to catch him- Sherlock had informed him that the suspect-'Not suspect John! The murderer!' Arrogant prat- was male.
John didn't dare attempt to ask Sherlock to elaborate again on how he reached the conclusion that the murderer had OCD. The first time he had asked, genuinely interested, Sherlock had spewed out a list of deductions at the speed of light including: 'It's obvious John, from the way he's retied the Victims tie! Look, see the knot-' When John had logically pointed out that the Victim could have done his own tie that way the morning of his murder, he had received the 'Are you really that Dense?' stare and had promptly decided to shut up.
Sighing darkly and shaking his head to get rid of annoying murderers, ties, and irritating flatmates, he turned to check on his friend-just to check that he hadn't managed to get himself killed in the small space of time John had lost interest in Sherlock's quiet mumblings- and got the shock of his life.
Sherlock was leaning about three quarters of his body over the bridge, feet off the floor and hooked round the bridge supports, the only action that was really keeping Sherlock from toppling into the icy water below was the loose grasp of his left hand on the frosty railing. His right hand was busy holding a few overgrown dark curls out of his face-Sherlock had recently found the thought of a simple haircut was too dull for his mind to even consider- as he concentrated intently on something below.
"Jesus-SHERLOCK!" John shouted alarmed, which he realised a second later, was probably not the best of ideas as Sherlock jumped at the sudden noise and his left hand lost its grip on the bridge.
John quickly rushed forward, grabbing his friend's long legs and hastily pulling him back to safety before the gradient that Sherlock's body was angled at became too steep for John to cope with.
A second later, they both toppled backwards, landing harshly on the bridge's floor, both men emitting a grunt of discomfort at the impact. After a few moments of waiting until his heartbeat regained a proper, stable rate, John turned to check on Sherlock and found himself subject to an unforgiving glare.
"John," The man growled, eyebrows furrowed and tone soaked in annoyance.
John felt a similar annoyance building.
"For god's sake Sherlock! You don't just hang over the edge of bridges like that! You could have fallen! You-"
"Fallen?" Sherlock said, his features suddenly moulding themselves into that of bored indifference.
"Yes Sherlock," John replied sternly. "Fallen. Ever heard of Gravity?"
There was silence between the two men for a moment, the wind rustled through the trees and the water rushed below them.
"Ah," The dark haired man said after a moment, still looking completely disinterested.
"Yes, exactly, ah-" John began, his cheeks turning red in frustration, before being interrupted.
"Gravity, Gravity's boring."
John didn't know which urge was stronger; to hit the idiot sat in front of him or to throw himself off the bridge now and save Sherlock the trouble of causing him to go into cardiac arrest later.
Sherlock Holmes would never let himself die through the dull means of suicide.
"Hurry up John!"
John huffed, rolling his eyes as he struggled to get his coat zip to pull up. Sherlock watched him struggle, bouncing on the balls of his feet and his face taking on the mask of a man parched and desperate for water.
The zip fell from between his fingers, the coat separating in the middle again. John could hear Sherlock gritting his teeth in ire.
"John," He groaned impatiently, levelling a dark look at the cause of John's struggling.
John had no doubt that by the time the case was over, the zips on all the coats he owned would mysteriously disappear.
'Potential hazards that could hinder my occupation should be eliminated,' Sherlock would tell him with a satisfied upturn on the lips if he were confronted on the issue, or feign innocence, or just ignore the question entirely and take a sip of John's tea.
Most probably the latter.
John sighed deeply, finally managing to zip his coat up for what would probably be for the last time- it was a shame, he liked this one- before hurriedly following the sight of Sherlock's dramatic coat billowing out of the front door. He sent a shout to Mrs Hudson asking her to lockup the flat for him with her spare key on the way out, ignoring the 'I'm not your housekeeper!' she replied with; She'd lock up the flat for him.
Getting into the cab which Sherlock had miraculously hailed, again, John just shook his head at Sherlock's antics and decided not to notice the stubborn silence of his flatmate which told him exactly who Sherlock blamed for being late to meet Lestrade at the crime scene, and listened to the tapping of Sherlock's fingers as he typed furiously on his BlackBerry.
As the cab slowed outside of a rather ordinary looking house with white paint peeling off the orange brick and grass slightly overgrown in the front garden, Sherlock threw himself out of the still-moving vehicle and gracefully strode- or leaped might have been a better word- down the garden path and into the house, sending a few sneers at various policemen and women along the way.
Sally Donovan was lucky enough to receive a particularly nasty sneer today, John noticed.
Probably due to the lack of Anderson on the scene to use as a personal verbal insulting bag.
Sighing deeply again in resignation and waiting for the cab to stop, John tiredly opened the vehicle door, paying the driver, and strode towards the entrance to the house; sending nods at the few policemen who didn't look at him in disapproval.
"Fishing," Sally stated loudly as he walked by her.
John decided temporary deafness had its advantages.
But before John could take another step towards the front door, a very disappointed and scowling Sherlock Holmes stalked from the interior of the house towards him.
Observing his flatmates features, John easily knew what was wrong.
"Suicide?" He asked conversationally, the corners of his lips threatening to upturn in an amused smile.
Sherlock obviously thought John's question did not dignify an answer and instead, pushed past John towards the cab which hadn't had the opportunity to leave yet. He watched in half annoyance and half amusement as his friend pulled up his coat collar, wrapping the coat further around himself before stepping into the backseat of the cab, huddling into the corner and muttering a few words to the driver.
The cab then drove off a moment later, leaving John behind at the crime scene.
Lestrade walked out of the house, eyes darting around before fixing on the cab driving down the road. He then moved his gaze to John, raising an eyebrow at the doctor.
John groaned, rubbing a hand across his face and wishing that had his gun to shoot Lestrade with.
It wasn't him who had to deal with a sulking Sherlock Holmes for the rest of the week.
The fabric of the woman's clothing scratched against his cheek again and John pushed himself away from her. The woman's body was blurry and his eyes were misty. No this couldn't be Sherlock, not Sherlock.
He wanted Sherlock's sulks, Sherlock's icy glares, and biting tongue. He wanted Sherlock's occasional genuine smiles, his excited deductions, the smug set of his face when he worked out something no one else could.
He wanted Sherlock.
He'd deal with a thousand sulking Sherlock's all at once if it meant that his friend was alive; that his friend wasn't dead.
Taking a deep breath, not even flinching as he inhaled the scent of the woman's perfume, 'Why are women of this era so desperate to smell so unpleasant John?' John carefully moved his eyes from the woman's shoulder to the sight of the man on the floor.
A pained cry erupted from his mouth and he instantly felt the bony, talon like fingers of the people around him grabbing his arms and pulling him back. Holding him in place. Someone's nail scratched the back of his hand as they moved to grip his wrist, leaving a sting behind.
"Sh-Sherlock, please, please," He whispered brokenly. "Please, God Sherlock, please"
He wanted the people to leave him alone.
He wanted them gone.
He didn't want the woman who was once again trying to coax him to her, he didn't need her, he didn't need anyone.
He needed Sherlock.
Dear gods, he needed Sherlock.
They were supposed to die together, laughing hysterically in the rain as they ran away from yet another crazed, sadistic murderer on London's back streets, or the two of them held hostage by a secret underground gang; Sherlock's cutting remarks and accurate deductions ensuring they would be nothing more than two motionless bodies caught up in the battlefield of London by the time the sun rose over the city.
'With Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield,'
They were supposed to die together.
"Wanna see some more?"
"Oh God yes,"
Two wayward soldiers who ran recklessly through the gunfire of no man's land, understanding they were likely to fall but willing to risk it for the elation of reaching the other side.
It wasn't supposed to happen to this.
With Sherlock lying motionless in his own blood and John's body still carrying out ventilation without much issue. 'Boring,'
This was wrong; so, so wrong.
They had become a hybrid; Sherlock-and-John, John-and-Sherlock. 'Him and I; I and him.' It seemed almost unnatural when one was without the other. 'Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?' Like a part of themselves was missing. 'I don't know, how often are you away?'
How could the world be so cruel as to expect one to live without the other now?
They were lifting Sherlock now; laying his broken body on the stretcher and wheeling him away. His body looked like a boneless ragdoll, one which had endured far too many battles for the child it had existed for.
They were taking Sherlock away; they were taking Sherlock away from him.
They were taking away the man with the inky hair and the smirking cupids bow; taking away the only god forsaken thing left on this planet that meant something to John Watson.
They were wheeling away John's life without him ever giving anyone permission to do so. Sherlock Holmes was his life; he had been for a while.
"No-no," He heard himself whisper, "No, wait-Sherlock, no-"
Someone pulled on his arm, trying to take him away too; trying to take him away from Sherlock.
Sherlock needed him.
He needed Sherlock.
"No-No," He ripped his arm from the persons grasp, placing his hands flat against the floor and shakily pulling himself to stand, stumbling back a few steps to avoid the enemy around him; the people trying to make his target unattainable. His hands were twitching, the ghost of Sherlock's cold skin lingering on the pads of his fingertips. "Sherlock-"
It was late, the curtains were closed and the main lights switched off. The only light source came from the flames slowly eating away at a couple of logs in the fireplace; illuminating the seating area in a warm orange glow. Sherlock was sat in his chair, uncharacteristically quiet straight after a case, his eyebrows were furrowed deeply; fingers steepled in front of his face and pressing against his lips as if he were pondering a particularly difficult problem.
The only sound in the room was the pleasent crackling of the fire, and the sound of pages turning as John read a first edition novel in his chair, the union jack pillow squished against his back. Otherwise there was silence.
"Would you miss me, if I died?"
John chocked, nearly spilling the boiling cup of tea in his hand on himself and his book, regretting the gulp of tea he had just taken before Sherlock had spoken with his truly immaculate timing.
"Wha-What?" John managed sputter, staring at his friend with watery eyes. His throat was burning, and drops of tea were sliding down the cup and burning his hand.
"Would you miss me? If I died?"
John carefully placed the tea on the floor by his foot and rested the book on the armchair, stroking its old binding once gently before leaning back against the chair, interlocking his fingers on his lap and taking a few moments to observe his friend.
Sherlock's skin was flickering between different shades in the glow of the fire, his face oddly reflective and grey eyes gazing at John with such intensity that John had to resist the urge to look away uncomfortably.
"-Sherlock?" He asked uncertainly, trying to search the dark-haired man's face for more clues."Why-"
"It's alright if you wouldn't," Sherlock said, his eyes gliding from Johns face to stare at the mantelpiece with an emotionless mask plastered on his face. "I mean- I understand why you wouldn't,"
"No," John said quickly, "Sherlock I never said-" He stopped his protests as Sherlock continued to stare emotionlessly at the mantelpiece, he didn't turn to acknowledge John; the man didn't even look like he was listening.
John huffed in exasperation.
"You know what your problem is Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't move; only snorted quietly.
"Why don't you enlighten me Doctor?"
"You make assumptions."
The fireplace gave a loud crackle. A small furrow appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows before it disappeared and his face became a blank mask again.
"Hardly; I make deductions, not the same thing."
"Really?" John asked, his tone soaked in sarcasm. He leaned forward in the chair, fingers still interlocked and glared intensely at Sherlock's face, lips pursed and one eyebrow raised. "Then why don't you enlighten my inferior mind-"he mocked, "-on the deductions that have lead you to this specific conclusion Detective?"
Sherlock frowned again, glaring at the wood as if it had committed a particularly sinful act.
"Well? You going to enlighten me anytime soon Sherlock?" The man waited a couple of seconds without getting an answer. "No, I didn't think so,"
"Your being ridiculous John."
"No, you are."
Neither spoke, John continued glaring at his dark haired flat mate, whilst the tall man glared viciously at the mantelpiece on which his beloved skull was placed lovingly upon. The fire continued crackling loudly in the fireplace; the sound pleasant despite the tense atmosphere.
Eventually John relaxed his glare, falling back against the chair tiredly and worriedly observing Sherlock's tight features.
"What brought this up Sherlock?" He asked softly, after Big Ben chimed quietly in the background indicating that it was just past midnight.
"It doesn't matter John,"
"I think it does."
Sherlock's mouth opened to retort; probably something childish along the lines of 'I think it doesn't' before catching the determined look John was actively sporting. The detective exhaled loudly through his nose, twisting his body around in the chair, getting up and walking to the window. He used a hand to pull the curtain to the side and stared up at the dark sky with his back to John.
"Lestrade."
"What?"
John heard another loud exhale from the other man.
"It was Lestrade that made me think about- this."
John tilted his head, studying his friends back.
"How?"
Sherlock was silent for a few moments, before he turned his body to the left slightly, tilting his head and looking at John with an unreadable expression.
"At the hospital the other day-" He paused for a moment. "I heard you talking to Lestrade. You said you'd miss him if anything happened to him."
"I did," John confirmed. "I would."
"So?"
"So what?"
"Would you miss me? If I were to die?"
John studied Sherlock's face, light was spilling onto his friends face from the glow of the moon behind him. His features were arranged in an order John had never seen on the taller man before, and it took a few moments of studying the high cheekbones and pale skin before John realised.
Sherlock Holmes was nervous about John Watson's answer.
John felt a rush of affection towards the idiot standing beside the window. For all Sherlock was- quick, intelligent, extraordinary- Sherlock Holmes in all his brilliance would never escape from being a complete fool when it came to the illogic of human emotions, and John wouldn't have him any other way.
"Sherlock-" He saw Sherlock hold his breath, hanging on John's every word. "You complete Idiot."
Sherlock blinked.
"Excuse me?"
John's lips upturned, he shook his head and resisted the urge to laugh at the detectives' stupefied expression-Sherlock would think he was mocking him.
"I said that you're a complete Idiot." John smiled affectionately, giving Sherlock one last look before standing and picking up his cup; walking towards the kitchen to make himself a fresh one. "Tea?"
When he didn't receive an answer, John turned, raising an eyebrow questionably at the taller man. "Sherlock?"
The man was turned fully in John's direction with the window behind him, eyes narrowed and an uncertain look on his face.
"You haven't answered my question." The man spoke slowly, eyes intently studying John again.
"You shouldn't need me to; you should know the answer already,"
Sherlock didn't reply.
"Oh for the love of- For all your ranting about the stupidity of mankind and the importance of observation skills you can be pretty dense yourself sometimes."
Sherlock frowned, looking mildly insulted at the comment. He didn't reply with his cutting tongue like he usually would however; the uncertainty still lingered in the unusual thinness of his lips, and the furrow of his brow.
"-Sherlock," John said seriously; his voice gentle. "Think, what do you think the answer to your question is?"
"I-" Sherlock hesitated, John suddenly thought he had an idea on what was wrong.
"Sherlock-no, stop it. Stop deducing and observing, just think." When the dark-haired man looked even more uncertain after John's comment, John sighed. "You already have all the data you need Sherlock" he promised, "you don't need anymore."
John then padded into the kitchen, leaving the struggling detective with his words, and made two cups of tea before carrying them back into the living area. He placed Sherlock's cup on the floor next to the chair the detective was sat on earlier before retreating back to his own chair, positioning the union jack pillow correctly in its place before sitting and cradling the hot cup between his hands.
Sherlock walked away from the window, sitting in the chair he had recently occupied and his entire attention focused on John. His eyes shone brightly from the flickering of the flames.
"You care."
"I do." John replied.
"You would miss me."
"Without question."
Sherlock didn't look away.
"More than Lestrade?"
John gave a small, slightly amused smile.
"What do you think?"
The next day when John was at the surgery, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket whilst on his lunch break. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out the device, John felt a smile take home on his face as he read the message; amused by Sherlock's way of getting answers to questions he would otherwise feel uncomfortable asking without the use of texting.
Why would you miss me?
-SH
In the end Sherlock was brilliant, amazing, dangerous and interesting, and had all the intellect to beat any NASA scientist or world-class criminal. But these were not the reasons that John Watson would miss Sherlock Holmes.
Because your my best friend you idiot. You play your violin at two in the morning, conduct crazy experiments that will probably be the death of me someday, and have a fondness of texting that annoys the whole of Scotland Yard. You sulk, have an icy tongue when you're moody, like tea, love the city and are completely clueless when it comes to the messiness of emotions. You're also caring underneath all your insults and sneers; you're human Sherlock. But most importantly you're Sherlock Holmes, there's no simple way to define you and there never will be. No one could ever replace you Sherlock.
-JW
It was a few hours before Sherlock replied. John smiled apologetically at the woman across from his desk complaining about experiencing particularly nasty migraines as he checked his phone.
I'd miss you too, and were out of milk.
-SH
People were giving him more space now, hovering and sending him concerned glances, but mostly they were conversing amongst themselves in low mumbles- Unimportant. He needed to follow Sherlock, Sherlock needed him. He was Sherlock' friend, Sherlock's doctor; he knew best.
His best friend needed him.
Putting his hands flat out in front of him as a warning for people to back off- he was okay, he was fine. He was the soldier who fought in Afghanistan, the doctor who had received what seemed like mere body parts and ordered to somehow fit them all back together again. He could do this, he knew he could, he just needed these people to leave him the hell alone.
He needed to try and fit Sherlock all back together again.
'Couldn't fit Humpty Dumpty together again,"
'One foot in front of the other' a voice in his head informed him, 'just take small steps'.
Right, okay—Right, he could do this. Right foot, left foot, right foot- was he moving anywhere? Left foot, left foot- No, no that wasn't right. Why wasn't it right? Sherlock was always right, was it the right foot he was supposed to move? Right, left, Sherlock? No, no, no, not Sherlock, Sherlock was dead. No-he's not dead. Sherlock's calm face as he stood, body tipping over the building edge-No, no Sherlock! Don't- 'Ever heard of Gravity?''Ah, gravity, gravity's boring'. – No, no Gravity's important- you bastard, falling, falling. Don't you ever fall Sherlock, God, don't you dare. Blood, so much blood, gods, so much fucking blood. No-Sherlock, what? Sherlock, dead, no-
For God's sake NO!
John felt his knee caps connect harshly with the concrete, his knees felt wet. Why did his knees feel wet? Please, Sherlock, Damn it, please, please. You can't be dead, you are not dead. Need to get to Sherlock, Sherlock needs me- Damn it Sherlock, I need you! Please don't leave me, please, "please," The word came out strangled, John felt his shoulders begin to shake. "Please, Please, Please, Please..." His own desperate low cries disappeared from his own ears; the only indication that he continued his desperate pleas was the feel of lips moving around the same word, the same prayer over and over and over again.
Jesus Sherlock, why?
Please, don't be dead Sherlock, do this for me Sherlock please?
'Please will you do this for me?'
"Do what?"
"This phone call, it's erm," There was a pause. "It's my note." John felt sick. "It's what people do don't they, leave a note?"
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye John."
"No, don't-"
The sound of a phone hitting the roof- arms outstretched., No-no Sherlock, no- tipping, falling. No-NO!
So much falling- falling, falling down-
'Sh-SHERLOCK!'
"Sherlock!"
He felt dizzy, his stomach rolled and his upper body fell forwards. Instinctually, John reached his hands out in front of him, his palms stung as the flesh was cut across a few loose stones in the pavement. His hands felt wet, his trousers felt wet. Why were they wet? Something was sticky and warm on his palm, coating his fingers in red, red wetness-Blood. Sherlock's blood. God, he'd collapsed in Sherlock's blood; his hands were stained with it, stained with such precious, precious blood.
He heard ringing, his ears were hurting. Something warm fell down his cheek, the taste of it salty as it slid delicately across his lips. Tears; he was crying. He hadn't cried in a while, not since he met Sherlock.
Sherlock.
His throat burned.
God, Sherlock.
"I'm a consulting detective; only one in the world, I invented the job. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult-me."
His stomach gave another violent roll, the ringing got louder; so, so, loud. His hands were shaking, his arms were shaking, his shoulders were shaking. Why was everything shaking? His lips were moving; what was he saying? He couldn't hear himself, he had no control. His sight was misty; he couldn't move his eyes away from the bloody pool beneath him. Sherlock's blood, his mind helpfully reminded him; how nice.
Yes Sherlock's blood, because Sherlock was dead.
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead,"
Sherlock gave him a look.
"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper."
Sherlock, his best friend, had just gone and threw himself of a building.
"Okay look up I'm on the rooftop,"
"Oh god,"
"I,I- I can't come down so we'll- we'll just have to do it like this,"
His best friend-Sherlock Holmes- was fucking dead.
Dead, gone, finished.
"So what are your thoughts on life after death?" John directed the question at Sherlock late one night, after just completing a case which involved more than a few religious tones.
Sherlock looked up from plucking lovingly at the strings on his violin, studying John with a vaguely interested expression.
"Do you believe in it?"
"Do you?"
"I was asking you Sherlock-"
"Yes, and now I'm asking you,"
John sighed, twisting his lips in contemplation.
"I'm not sure, sometimes I think about the idea and it seems ridiculous. But then other times- other times I-" John trailed off, looking down at his lap; unsure on how to explain.
"Other times you look at the dead bodies of the unfortunate people you couldn't save, and want to believe that there's somewhere for them to go to; that death is not the end for them."
John looked up in surprise; Sherlock's eyes were still fixed on him, his gaze hadn't flickered away in the slightest.
"Yes, so- so do you believe in it then? That there's something there?"
John couldn't quite keep the hopeful expression out of his voice. He was well aware that Sherlock did not have all the answers, and that he didn't always get it right. But Sherlock was always the logical one; the man who got most answers correct without much effort. His opinion was something John Watson valued greatly.
Sherlock contemplated John, eyes as grey as ever and giving away nothing.
"No." Sherlock said eventually, before going back to plucking at his violin.
John hadn't really expected anything different.
His head connected with the concrete hard. His brain was pounding against his skull. Jesus; his chest felt like it was ripping itself apart.
"Sherlock! "
"Yes John?"
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock looked up from the case file he was currently studying; raising an inquiring eyebrow at John's concerned expression.
"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"
"Well it's just that-well, there's teabags in the cupboard."
Sherlock's eyebrow was raised higher.
"Yes,"
John continued to stare at his friend with a mildly alarmed expression.
"There wasn't any in there before I left for the pub earlier."
"No there wasn't John, that's why I went out and got some."
"But you never so the shopping!" John exclaimed, watching Sherlock carefully for any indication that something was wrong. Unnatural behaviour from Sherlock wasn't usually something to look forward to- usually it meant something was very wrong.
"Yes, well," Sherlock huffed, before focusing his attention back on the case file. "I heard what you said to Mike Stamford."
John stared at his friend with a black expression.
"But I was just out at the pub with Mike-"
"Very good John,"
"And you weren't there-"
Sherlock sighed loudly, eyes trailing up from the case file and choosing to look at John in disappointment-clearly John didn't impress the great detective with his deduction skills.
"You sat on your phone and it called mine-unsurprising with my number being on speed dial. I heard your conversation-"
"You were ears-dropping!"
Sherlock huffed again, sending a gaping John a completely unapologetic glance.
"You were the one who called me, if I recall correctly,"
"By accident!"
"Hardly matters, you're picking at technicalities." The man stated simply. "Besides, your conversation was less dull than talking to Stanley-"
"Stanley?"John was momentarily confused. "You mean your skull?"
"Yes, he seems to be losing his conversation these days-"
"Conversation!"
"Don't feel the need to repeat everything I say John, it's hardly an attractive trait,"
"But-"
"Anyway," Sherlock stated loudly, stopping John in his tracks. "I heard what you said to him, about me not appreciating you, and you having to clean up after me all the time-"
John horrified, cut Sherlock off to explain.
"No-Sherlock I've been stressed lately. I didn't mean-"
Sherlock clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes.
"Obviously. It hardly take a genius to deduce that John. Even Anderson, who is the definition of a walking idiot, would be able to deduce that using little of his inferior brain power. However by leaving the thumbs in the kettle, I merely made the situation worse."
"Right," John dragged out the word, before squinting down at Sherlock. "So the box of tea bags is an apology?"
Sherlock stared intently at the case file again, his face emotionless.
"Don't be absurd John; you can hardly make tea for me without the teabags can you? If you had came back to the flat to find there wasn't any left in the cupboard you would not have went to buy anymore in your stressed state, therefore me walking to the shops and buying the teabags and bringing them back to the flat was of benefit to myself."
John grinned.
"Of course Sherlock,"
John tried to push himself up off the ground, but collapsed back against the floor- his arms going weak. He rolled onto his side and brought his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and resting his forehead on his knees- Sherlock's blood smearing across his forehead.
What does it matter? Sherlock's dead, he doesn't need it anymore.
He's dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead. DEAD.
John shivered.
God, the ringing was so loud, everything sounded like he was underwater- 'drowning in Sherlock's blood,' a voice whispered sadistically in his head. He felt like laughing though he didn't know why. Nothing was funny. It wasn't normal to laugh at things that weren't funny.
"Stop-stop, we can't giggle it's a crime scene, stop it,"
"You were the one who shot him, don't mind me,"
He might have laughed, he wasn't sure, he had no control. No fucking control. He couldn't concentrate. He could hear distant whispers of worried voices, could feel the vibrations of people's movements on the pavement he was laid on. There was so much living. Why was there so much living when Sherlock was dead?
Time seemed to be going slow, people's feet were taking too long to reach the pavement as they stepped, the distant voices dragging out each syllable in every word they said.
"It's an odd thing, rather confusing, don't you think John?"
John looked up from where he was sat cross legged on his bed, glancing away from the bright laptop screen he had been concentrating on a moments previously to look at his friend, who was laid with his hands behind his head on his own bed a few metres to the left of John's.
"What is?" John asked, confused.
Sherlock gave a small derisive huff, a dark curl falling onto his forehead as he moved his head into a more comfortable position against his arm.
"Time John. It's strange isn't it?" John didn't answer, just silently listened to the man. "People always talk about it as if it's endless, but then when it comes down to it, there never seems to be enough of it."
"I suppose-that's true," John agreed quietly, giving a small nod and observing his friend's face carefully.
"I mean, it always seems to offer the whole of itself to you, but it's really only giving you the chance of a few happy memories and a couple of major screw-ups before it snatches back the parts of itself that it allowed you to borrow,"
John raised an eyebrow; this most definitely was not normal Sherlock behaviour.
"-Sherlock?"
"John?"
"Is this about," John hesitated when Sherlock's eyes flashed to him. "Is this about your uncle?"
Sherlock didn't reply for a moment.
"No. it's not."
Sherlock and John were currently sharing a bed and breakfast room in the countryside. Mycroft had called a week ago to inform Sherlock that their uncle had died due to a long-term illness. Sherlock hadn't seemed terribly affected by the news, and when John had walked Mycroft to the front door the man had informed John that Sherlock had never got on with most of the Holmes family members, and to just make sure that Sherlock actually appeared at the funeral out of a sign of respect at least.
Mycroft had then gave John all the details and told him that a car would come and pick up his younger brother on the day.
John actually hadn't needed to do any work to get Sherlock to attend the funeral. When John had re-entered the room Sherlock had merely said "You'll need to buy a new suit John, I'm afraid my family are rather, for a lack of a better word, snobbish in the least. It would be best to try and blend in as much as possible."
John had not commented and just took the words as a roundabout way of Sherlock saying that yes, he would be attending but he also wished for John to attend with him.
"It's about you,"
John cocked his head. "Me?"
"Yes,"
Suddenly, a light bulb seemed to go off in John's head.
"Oh."
Sherlock said nothing.
"Sherlock-" John started, "Nothing happened, I'm fine-"
Sherlock suddenly moved; jumping up off the bed and pacing on the floor in front of it. John watched the tall man's agitated movements with a mental roll of the eyes.
"This time," The man spat eventually, sneer fixed firmly on his face. "But what about next time John? Or the time after that? One of these days our luck's going to run out and you'll end up dying and whose fault will it be?"
The man stopped, giving John quite an aggressive look, and waited for an answer.
John took a deep breath, making sure he had all his patience ready and waiting in case this situation escalated.
"Sherlock-"
The man didn't even give him the chance of answering properly.
"Mine," Sherlock hissed, his teeth clenched. He then began his pacing again and John started to feel dizzy from following the quick steps. "It will be mine."
"Sherlock will you stop it!" John snapped eventually, sending an equally dark glare back at Sherlock when the man stopped abruptly to send one of his own. "Now,-no Sherlock shut up," John said sternly when he saw the dark-haired detective's mouth open. "Now, let's get this very clear; it is my own choice, of my own free will to do what I wish to, and if I happen to decide with my own said free will to follow you into a case which ends up in my own demise, then that was my own choice wasn't it? Do you understand?"
Sherlock continued to glare, his jaw tense.
"Do you understand?" John repeated, not backing down on the issue.
"John," The man growled, and John felt like grabbing the bedside lamp and committing a rather grisly murder of his own.
"No Sherlock, I said do you understand?" John made sure he used his 'solider voice', the voice that left no room for argument. "I'll always follow you Sherlock, whether you like it or not is beside the point, I mean, can you imagine the type of trouble you'd get up to without me there to stop you? You'd be dead before the end of the week,"
Sherlock walked over and sat heavily on the end of his bed, glaring at the pale blue wall. His face then morphed into one of torment, as if the man was internally struggling with two very different points. Eventually, he softly snorted and looked at John out the corner of his eye, a small smirk on his face.
"Well, I suppose me forbidding you from following would cause a few problems with your blog wouldn't it? We wouldn't want to deny the public their weekly feed of Sherlock watch."
John merely sighed deeply, relaxing back against the headboard and allowing his fingers to begin typing again.
"You are far too sure of your own importance Sherlock; it's unbecoming of you."
Sherlock's smirk only got bigger.
Arrogant Sod.
Sherlock was important, so important.
His ears picked up on a horrific ripping sound; the sound distorted and the ringing ever present. 'Concussion?' he ignored the thought. A sudden sharp pain to his throat allowed him to realise that the ripping sound had originated from him. This realisation didn't surprise him as much as he thought it should have. God why the hell was he still living, still breathing?
'Breathing? Breathings boring,'
He wanted to give a harsh laugh, yes Sherlock, breathing's boring.
The sound of sirens in the distance penetrated his mind, giving him a slight glance of clarity for a moment before throwing him back into the whirlwind of his own personal wonderland. Sirens, there were sirens; sirens meant the police were present. Sirens were good, Sherlock always liked the sirens. John liked the sirens too; it meant lots of adrenaline, lots of thrill, and lots of running by Sherlock's side, both of them laughing as they ran, evaluating the amount of trouble Sherlock had managed to get them both thrown into that time with his mad schemes.
"Hurry up John, they're gaining on us!"
"We wouldn't have anyone gaining on us," John huffed angrily, heart pounding and eyes watering with the sting of the wind as he ran just behind Sherlock around the twists and turns of London's collection of alleyways. "If you hadn't decided to tell the man with the very large gun that his wife was having an affair with the enemy gang leader due to his lack of sex skills!"
"I was merely informing him-"
"SHERLOCK!"
Understanding instantly the warning in John's voice, Sherlock gave a swift turn to the right, bullet grazing just where his head had been a second before, John followed his graceful movements to the best as his ability allowed him, refusing to think about what would have happened if he hadn't been present to warn Sherlock about the bullet that had been about to embed itself through his friends brilliant brain.
"Where are we running to Sherlock?" John called over the thudding of his feet against the pavement and the occasional gun shot from the gang members behind him.
Receiving no reply, John continued. "Were running away from Baker Street Sherlock!" as if the tall man didn't have the whole map of London memorised inside his head. "Where the hell are we going?"
"Not now John!" Came the irritated reply, "I'm sure it's around here somewhere-"
Sherlock turned right out of the alley, his coat flapping behind him.
Bloody man and his dramatic coat.
John's legs ached and his lungs burned as he also emerged, frantically scanning his eyes around the dark; searching for his friends dark head amongst the small crowds still walking around central London in the dim orange glow of street lights.
'Bloody Sherlock Holm-'
A pale hand flashed out and grabbed his coat by the collar, pulling him inside a small supermarket and dragging him quickly behind the closest aisle. The owner of the said pale hand then peeked his head around the basket of large breadsticks positioned beside the aisle and watched through the window as their pursuers ran right past the shop and further down the street, the guns in their hands producing more than a few screams from passersby and beeping horns from taxis.
John's breathless companion then grinned happily, striding away from their hiding spot and towards an aisle labelled 'Dairy products' with his gloved hands in his coat pockets.
"Knew it was around here-"
"Sherlock! What-why are we in here?" John asked incredulously, eyes bright and cheeks flushed in excitement and frustration, sending a quick glance at the shop window as if expecting their earlier pursuers to come barging in with guns at the ready.
Sherlock turned, a dark eyebrow raised and cheeks baring a similar flush to John's. In his right hand, balancing from his index finger; a plastic container with the label 'semi-skimmed' printed in large black letters.
"Were out of milk,"
John felt himself go completely still, staring wide-eyed at the madman in the expensive coat and blue scarf who stood calmly in the middle of the dairy aisle in Tesco's after just nearly having his brains blown out all over a brick alley wall.
How did he reply to that?
An old woman shuffled down the aisle, dressed in a woolly moss-green cardigan with beige slippers, and stopped; eyes squinting upwards to debate how to acquire the last carton of milk which was unfortunately occupying the tallest shelf that only a giraffe-human hybrid like Sherlock Holmes would be able to reach.
Just as John was about to force himself out of his state and offer the woman help, the woman's features darkened and her eyes glinted. She quickly smacked the back of Sherlock's calves with her wooden walking stick with what looked like all the force she had, causing Sherlock to gasp and loosen his grip on the milk at the unexpected attack. The woman quickly snatched the milk out of the shocked man's hands before shuffling away at the highest speed John Watson had ever witnessed a person of her age group move before- and he had seen the shuffling races between the elderly population for the last seat left on the bus- the milk clutched victoriously in her bony grip.
After watching the woman's exit, John turned to glance at Sherlock. His jaw was hanging open, eyes wide, staring in a state of shock in the direction of the aisle the elderly woman had just about sprinted towards.
John couldn't help it, he laughed.
The great Sherlock Holmes could outrun murderers, outwit the man who sat behind the desk of the government itself, but couldn't escape from being assaulted by an eighty year old lady with white curly hair and slippers, casually committing a form of milk thievery in the middle of Tesco's.
Sherlock's eyes flashed to his, eyebrows pulling together in a frown, studying John's amusement with a slight glare.
John's laughter got louder.
Sherlock lips twitched, one corner curving up in a smirk.
"Now John, do you see why the grand task of grocery shopping will be falling to you for years to come?"
Sherlock had been wrong, not years; they hadn't had years.
No more mad schemes now, no more Sherlock.
No more fighting over the last drop of milk left in the carton at Baker Street, over the last tea-bag, or the last clean cup. No more arguments over the many hazardous experiments John had actually managed to ingest from time to time; miraculously only ending up in A and E three times.
No more of those frantic hospital visits, Sherlock's mouth moving around words at the rate of a mile a minute, harassing nurses and undeserving reception staff 'Please, it's obvious your having an affair with your husband's brother,' and shouting at the idiocy of the doctors with a look of pure contempt on his pale features whilst John, wheezing and struggling to breathe due to whatever chemical compound he had eaten, attempted to get Sherlock to shut up and apologise to the stupefied doctors.
"Sorry sir, he's ingested human liver containing what?"
"I've already told you, you complete imbecile!-"
-"Sherlock!"
"-Shut up John, Its-"
"Sherlock!"
"Honestly, it's a miracle that you even managed to gain entry to medical school in the first place-"
No more laughs, no more frowns.
No more having to deal with Sherlock's scowls and sulks after John has been boring, by taking an active interest in his friends health again, and so incidentally preventing Sherlock from doing the very thing he had been wanting to do.
"But-"
"No."
"John, I-"
"No."
"John-"
"No Sherlock."
Sherlock glared, pupils narrowing as he focused intently on his flatmate.
"Your being boring John," he informed him, his face twisting distastefully.
"I don't care."
The dark haired man sneered, his eyes flashing with irritation, before a sullen look crossed his features.
"Please?"
John laughed humourlessly in reply.
"What, drugs bring out your nice side do they?"
Sherlock's hands clenched into tight fists, anger crossing his features.
"Fine," He hissed through clenched teeth. "Fine, I'll go and get some more."
John watched in furious silence, with cold eyes and a clenched jaw, as his friend stalked across the flat, thrusting his arms into his black coat and hastily wrapping the blue scarf around his pale neck before starting towards the door; his grey eyes glinting with anger in the darkness of the room.
Just as the consulting detective was about to take his first step out of the flat, a chilling threat echoed around the previous silence of the room.
"Don't. You. Dare."
No more, no more.
"Oh god Sherlock, please,"
The pain in chest was suddenly crushing; it felt as if someone was constricting their hand around the beating muscle- preventing any blood flow. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. God, he couldn't breathe. 'Breathing? Breathings boring,' yes-no it wasn't- but yes- no, no breathing was important. Why was it important again? Jesus it hurt so much.
Sherlock you bastard.
You complete Bastard.
You tall, milk-stealing, skinny idiot.
'I'll burn you; I'll burn the heart of you,"
Well it looked like Moriarty's disturbing promise did come true, just not to intended recipient.
The fact that Moriarty had been wrong gave John Watson no satisfaction.
Bloody hell, it hurt.
It hurt too much. Was he supposed to cope with this? He wasn't coping.
"Is that all I am to you now? A pet to the great, superior Sherlock Holmes? A pet that walks obediently at his masters heels, doing what it's told-"
Sherlock's face appeared right in his before John even had the time to blink, their noses bumped painfully.
"No." Sherlock's eyes were blazing, a shock compared to the indifference they usually portrayed. "You're much more than that John Watson. Much more."
John didn't question it.
It hurt so much, so, so much.
"No-look John, see that man over there - the one holding the little girl's hand?"
Sherlock and John were sat outside a cafe a few streets away from Bakers street. In some part of their conversation Sherlock had brought up John's deduction skills, or rather, John's lack of them. The result, John really should have been expected.
John searched the few people walking along the street before spotting him.
"Yes, I see him-"
"Tell me about him."
"Well," John started unenthusiastically; he'd done this three times already and failed miserably each time. "He's wearing a suit; it's not too expensive so I'm guessing he does some sort of work in an office building,"
He glanced at Sherlock for confirmation, who inclined his head to the left as a way of telling John to carry on, his fingers were tapping against the table, eyes flickering between John and the man they were watching.
"He's walking quite fast so he's in a hurry," John squinted his eyes as the man got further away. "In a hurry to get the girl to school?"
"Wrong," John wasn't surprised by this in the least. "The child's school doesn't start until nine, it's only seven-thirty, and the school is close enough to here that it wouldn't take more than half-an-hour to reach. Conclusion: the man is in a hurry for some other reason, what?"
John tried, he really did, but nothing stuck out to him.
"Work?" He asked feebly, raising his eyebrows.
Sherlock sighed deeply.
"He's having an affair on his wife with a teacher who works at the primary school his daughter attends. He left early with the girl this morning so he can dump her in the playground before going inside the school to see the teacher, the apple in his hand is a suggestion of a particular sexual fantasy of his. I know he's not rushing for work because if his work started before nine or close to nine-o-clock it would make more sense to take a cab, however if he's having an affair, taking a cab at this time to get the child to school an hour early would be more than a bit suspicious; hence why he is not taking a cab. He is wearing a wedding ring, so he's married and again, if he were rushing to work-"
"Okay Sherlock, okay," John rolled his eyes. "I get it, I'm not very good at it. Can we go back to Bakers Street now?"
Sherlock moved his eyes away from the man as he disappeared around the corner with the girl, and instead focused on John; his fingers stopping their rhythmic tapping upon the table.
"We'll just have to make sure you get more practice then." Sherlock said, before looking at the street. "That woman John-"
John groaned, an inch away from just allowing his head to smack against the table.
"This is sounding suspiciously like pet training Sherlock,"
Sherlock smirked.
"Nonsense." He stated simply. "This is 'Tag along Watson' training,"
John told himself he most certainly was not amused.
Oh god please.
"John?" A voice. It was familiar. Why was it familiar? "JOHN!"
Lestrade.
Gregory Lestrade.
"I'm waiting for an explanation Detective Inspector, why are you here?"
John whimpered, the sound of Sherlock's voice whispering inside his ears.
God, Sherlock.
"John, John can you hear me?"
Lestrade was getting closer.
"-incognito, is that why you're calling yourself Greg?"
"That's his name."
"Is it?"
There was a warm hand on his shoulder. The hand was shaking. Was it shaking? Or was he still shaking?
John unfolded himself as the hand began to get very insistent; he flinched when his retinas met the acquaintance of the light provided by the sky dotted with grey clouds above. A face appeared in his line of vision.
Lestrade was pale, dark shadows underlining sleep-deprived eyes and lines so deep on his forehead; it was if they'd permanently been etched there. Slowly, Lestrade pulled an unwilling John into a kneeling position, his face transforming suddenly into a mix of emotions at the sight of something John had been laid on.
"Jesus," The detective inspector breathed, horror-struck eyes gliding over the blood stained pavement. John could see the reflection of the scene in the narrowed pupils of the man's eyes. Sherlock's blood. So much blood.
Too much blood.
John smirked, amused, as his friend struggled to tie the bandage around John's hand, a look of concentration scrunching up his features.
"Are you going to let me do it now Sherlock? I may only have one hand to tie the bandage with but I'm sure I'll still be able to do a better job than you."
"No John," Sherlock replied irritated, glaring at the bandage. "I think I can manage the simple act of trying a bandage,"
"Mmm, right," John said sarcastically.
The bandage unfolded when Sherlock let go of it to grab a small piece of tape instead as a plan B. The dark-haired man cursed when he turned back and saw the result.
"You know," John snatched his hand away from Sherlock's reaching hands and used his other hand to wrap the white bandage around it tightly. "It's a relief that you've never had the ambition to be a doctor; the mortality rates in the hospital would spike."
Sherlock glared.
John chuckled, patting Sherlock on the shoulder with a perfectly bandaged hand.
Eventually Lestrade's eyes tore themselves from the sickening sight, gliding up John's form. Observing the scratched, blood-stained hands and ruined coat, the crimson and dirt smeared across the face, before eventually staring directly into John's own devastated orbs.
John felt a sharp pang in the chest area.
The Detective Inspector stared.
The friend-Not the Doctor, doctors were calm, composed. - stared back.
His eyes were brown and most definitely not the blue-grey colour John Watson had taken for granted far too many times.
John silenced the cry as best he could, a pained grunt originating from somewhere in-between his chest and throat.
John saw Lestrade shake his head, closing his eyes and squeezing them tight for a moment, 'willing the nausea to disappear' his brain told him, 'trying to stay calm, stay rational'. John looked away from Lestrade's face to stare at the hand currently squeezing his shoulder.
Lestrade's hand was clutched extremely tightly; too tight to be reassuring. The knuckles stuck out sharply from the skin, so sharply that under different circumstances John would be worried that they would pierce through the thin layer of skin. He could feel Lestrade's fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulder through his coat, applying so much pressure that he wouldn't be surprised if he found bruises there.
But most importantly, Lestrade's hands were shaking.
The army-doctor looked down at his own hands; his were shaking too.
Sherlock.
"I know John, I know." The detective murmured softly, - Strange, he must have spoken out loud.- opening his eyes and staring at John; his brown eyes filled not with pity, but a deep sadness and so much guilt that John would have been overwhelmed if he wasn't already very much so.
Lestrade blamed himself for this.
For Sherlock's death.
"That is what I have, alone protects me."
"No, friends protect people."
The realisation came like a bucket of ice water; shocking and cold. It had been his job, his responsibility and his alone to notice, to make sure Sherlock was okay when Sherlock was incapable of doing so for himself.
John had failed Sherlock.
John had failed the man who had placed so much trust in him, the man who had actually called him a friend; the man's only friend despite that not being true. John had failed the man that had called him his best friend.
"Listen, what I said before John I meant it," Sherlock's dark curled strands blew slightly in the breeze. His deep, baritone voice was steady but his eyes were intense and shone with a strange vulnerability John had never witnessed in Sherlock before. "I don't have friends,"
John had the strange sense that this moment was monumental; Sherlock was offering a part of himself to John that he'd never considered showing to anybody before. Sherlock was showing his humanity.
"I've just got one."
It was his fault Sherlock was dead.
Sherlock, please stop it please.
Please just stop it.
"Joining me?"
"Yeah, apparently it's against the law to chin the chief superintendent,"
"Bit awkward this,"
"Yeah, there's no one to bail us,"
"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape,"
Our.
The both of us Sherlock.
Gods Sherlock, it was supposed to be the both of us solving crimes together.
"Welcome to London,"
And now you're dead because John Watson wasn't smart enough to notice.
If only he'd been more observant; cleverer like Sherlock, more deserving of Sherlock's friendship, Sherlock's humanity, he would have noticed, and then Sherlock wouldn't be lying cold and dead on a stretcher surrounded by doctors who either thought him to be just another poor sod who'd suffered a hard life or a lying psychopath.
Dear Gods, it was his fault Sherlock was dead.
"All my fault, mine-"
"What?" Lestrade sounded shocked, his cheeks becoming paler and his lips parting slightly. "John-"
"Don't you see!" John screamed; voice hoarse. He ignored his raw throat which gave a sharp pain of protest to his decision to scream. "It's my fault!" His heart rate began to increase, his pulse pounding furiously in his ears. Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump... just like the times when he would run with Sherlock in the dead of the night, admiring the many streets of London as they ran for their lives, laughing at the rest of the world who were being so careful, so boring...Sherlock, Oh god Sherlock. 'I'm so Sorry, so, so sorry. So sorry,'
"John-how ca-"
"All my fault!"John chocked, a strangled sob wrenching from his bloodless lips followed by one of those dreadful ripping sounds he'd heard himself make earlier. They seemed to greatly alarm Lestrade, who stared at John in wide-eyed panic; his grip becoming even tighter on his shoulder so that any tighter and John was sure Lestrade's hand would press against bare bone.
Not that he cared.
John didn't care.
Fuck Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson.
Fuck the whole bloody world, the whole bloody, fucking British nation who turned their backs on Sherlock Holmes.
Fuck them all.
Sherlock.
John rushed through the corridors, the strong smell of anti-septic burning his nose, his shoes squeaking across the polished floor as he ran, nearly knocking into a few doctors and nurses in his path.
"Hey! You-" The receptionist began as he barged through the doors.
He didn't let her finish.
"Sherlock Holmes?" He asked frantically as he reached the white desk, his eyes wide and chest heaving. Sherlock was okay, he had to be okay.
The woman frowned. "I'm sorry sir but-"
"Sherlock Holmes," He growled again, his nails digging into his palm as he clenched his hands into tight fists.
The woman took a deep breath, testing John's very thin patience, before giving him a bored look- clearly this situation seemed familiar to her.
Well she hadn't met John Watson yet.
"Look, sir, you can't just-"
"Not there you complete imbecile! What do you think you're doing! You're supposed to keep patients alive, not make sure they die painfully in this complete hell you call a hospital-"
The voice was so familiar that John's shoulders sagged with relief, his face relaxing for the first time since Lestrade had called to tell him that Sherlock had been involved in an accident.
"Sherlock," He whispered in relief. "Sherlock,"
"John!" A voice called. "John is that you? No- what am I saying of course it's you-"
Sherlock's voice stopped abruptly at the sound of angry hissing originating from who John was guessing to be the poor doctor who had to deal with the rebellious- supposedly adult- consulting detective as a patient.
There was only silence for a moment after the hissing disappeared-even the bored look from the receptionists face had vanished; instead she stared in mild curiosity at the door of the room from which the voices had been coming from.
Then Sherlock said one word.
"Dull,"
"Right! Right that's it!" The door to the hospital room Sherlock was occupying slammed open in a similar fashion to how all the doors between John and Sherlock had done earlier, and a furious looking doctor stormed out; his face an extremely unhealthy shade of purple.
John resisted against the old urge to check the man's blood pressure.
"You!" The doctor suddenly shouted, pointing at John rudely with one finger. The man's eyes were wide and slightly crazed. "You John Watson?"
"Err-I-" John stuttered, taken aback by the doctor's attitude.
"You're a doctor if I've been told correctly, you can deal with him."
The mystery doctor then pushed past John and stalked towards the exit of the ward, muttering about going to have a well deserved shot of whisky and leaving a horrified looking receptionist behind.
"But sir- protocol! The hospitals policy!"
"Sod the lot of it!" Was the furious reply.
John only shrugged casually as the woman stared pleadingly at him for back-up, him providing none, and instead entering the hospital room his dark-haired friend was in. After stepping into the room he pushed back the curtains around a particular bed he was quite certain Sherlock was occupying.
The troublemaker was sat on the white crinkly paper of the hospital bed, smirking in smug satisfaction. There was a gash on the left side of his face; a few drops of blood dripping into his eye.
"Ah John," He said simply when he spotted him. "Use your influence to force them to accept my demands to discharge myself, they're all deciding to be persistently dense and insist on trying to treat me when I've already got a perfectly good source of treatment. I would call Mycroft, but then there's the possibility that he could be more of a hindrance to the situation and to be truly honest, I don't know if I have the right amount of patience to deal with him right now-"
If John was honest too, he didn't think Mycroft Holmes would have the patience to deal with his younger brother at this moment in time either. There hadn't been a single attempt to communicate with Sherlock or John since Sherlock had sent Mycroft a large basket of triple chocolate muffins with a card signed, 'How's the diet?' for his birthday last week.
"Sherlock you should have let the doctor treat you," John sighed, a small fond smile tugging at his lips as he walked closer to his friend to glimpse at the gash. "That'll need stitches."
"Obviously," Sherlock stated, looking blankly at John.
"But then why-"
"I've already got a doctor haven't I? God forbid having two,"
John raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I'll do the stitches for you? You insulted my apparent lack of medical knowledge just this morning. Maybe I'm not comfortable in treating a patient that does not have full confidence in my abilities-"
Sherlock just smiled.
The smile said: 'You'll always help me when I need it.'
He hadn't been there this time, hadn't helped this time.
His vision started tunnelling, the edges becoming black. His forehead covered in Sherlock's blood was resting against Lestrade's shoulder.
"Mine. All my fault, all mine, my fault-" His vision was becoming darker, he barely felt the sharp sting of the cold droplets of rain against the skin on the back of his neck. "Mine, all mine, God Sherlock-"
"Shh, John," Lestrade whispered, his voice which was usually firm and always calm, sounding so odd to John as it cracked. He could feel the vibrations of Lestrade's voice rumbling throughout his body as he spoke. It was soothing. "Sh, it's alright, I'm here John, you're not alone-"
Lestrade's other hand hesitantly reached up to stroke John's hair, trembling fingers gently sliding through small, wet strands and brushing softly against his scalp. Lestrade was softly whispering something in his ear; his voice kept cracking.
He was alone; he had failed Sherlock. Sherlock was gone. He had failed Mycroft.
"This, see-this is what you were trying to tell me isn't it? Watch his back because I've made a mistake."
A brief shock of anger overwhelmed him for a moment, making John's vision become even darker as the thought of Sherlock's brother flashed across his synapses, but it instantly dissolved. He was just as bad as Mycroft, had had just as big as a contribution to Sherlock's suicide. Suicide. Falling, falling, further and further, blood, so much blood...
"Sherlock you should go to hospital," John told his friend, running a soothing hand through Sherlock's soft curls whilst gently dabbing at the new head wound Sherlock had managed to gain with a damp cloth.
He was so angry at Sherlock, but that didn't mean his friend didn't need his help.
Sherlock winced as John pressed down a little harder than necessary on the bleeding cut, ducking his head. Johns hand moved away from Sherlock's bleeding wound for a moment to grab a pair of tweezers, his other hand sliding through the curls that sometimes fell onto Sherlock's forehead and using his clutch on them to pull the man's head back at an angle.
John still kept his slow circle movements on his friends scalp, trying to be as gentle as possible.
The only sound for a few minutes was the ticking of the pocket watch Sherlock has stolen from the victim's house of the murder case he was currently working on. "It's important somehow", Sherlock had explained, frustrated. "Just not sure on how yet-" and the clinking of small shards of glass hitting the dish John had prepared.
"John?"
"Mmm?" John replied absently, trying to keep Sherlock's head as still as he could whilst he used the tweezers to pull out a particularly awkward small piece of glass.
"I'm sorry,"
John sighed, eventually managing to grab the glass shard with the tweezers and pull it out-ignoring Sherlock's small wince-and placing it in the dish, putting down the tweezers and picking up the cloth; soaking it with warm water.
Sherlock watched him with calculating eyes, observing how he twisted the cloth to rid it of the excess water before pressing it carefully against the bleeding wound.
"John?" Sherlock said after a minute of silence, grasping John's wrist to stop the dabbing action and moving his face out the way of John's reach, looking up at him in askance.
"John, I'm sorry."
John exhaled, bringing the hand not clutching the cloth up to his furrowed eyebrows and rubbing the skin there.
Sherlock let go of his wrist.
"You could have died Sherlock."
"But I didn't-"
"But you could have."
John brought his hand down and the two men stared at each other.
"There had been the possibility of your death too John," Sherlock's baritone stated gently, averting his eyes from John's gaze.
"I know, but if I hadn't done what I did where would you be now?" John replied rather sternly, voice cold.
Sherlock didn't look up.
John merely sighed again before walking away with the plate of glass shards in his grasp, soft footfalls making their way towards the kitchen.
"John?"
The voice sounded small- an abnormality. John tried to tell himself that this was the only reason he paused on the way up the stairs to get some extremely well-needed sleep after cleaning up his doctors kit, said kit now held tightly in his left hand.
God, Sherlock had been so stupid.
"John, I-" Sherlock seemed to struggle; his voice trailing off before speaking again. "Thank-you for, well, what you did, I -it was, you were-it was good."
The detective stopped, silence appeared again.
John waited a few more seconds but it seemed Sherlock had said all he'd wanted to say and so John calmly carried on walking up the stairs, resisting against the urge to turn back around and tell Sherlock that everything had already been forgiven.
Later that night in the early hours of the morning, when John was just about to fall back to sleep after suffering from yet another nightmare surrounding the very likely possibility of his best friend's death, his phone vibrated. Cursing his luck and reaching out a hand to search blindly for the vibrating menace, John eventually felt the sleek edges of his phone against his fingertips and pulled it under the covers with him. Unlocking the screen and tapping on the symbol for messages, John read the most recent message with a small, tired smile before quickly typing his own reply, sending it, and putting the mobile back on the beside.
Thank you for saving my life, I'd be lost without my blogger.
-SH
I'll always save your skinny arse, no thanks necessary.
-Your faithful blogger, JW
He hadn't saved Sherlock this time.
He'd failed him.
Sherlock, I need you; your blogger needs you...
"No, no you-you don't understand-" he slurred, trying to keep his concentration. He needed to explain, needed Lestrade to understand, for someone, for anyone, to understand that it was his fault.
It was his.
His fault.
"It's- It's my-my fault. It's My fault that Sherlock's-" John closed his eyes, trying to fight the shadows luring him into the place which promised peace, promised escape from the shredder slowly tearing his heart into tiny, little pieces without pause. "-Sherlock's d-dead," He breathed, his energy leaving him. "It's my fault, and he's my friend, my brother-"
"John-"
John was confused for a moment, his thoughts in a jumbled mess before he realised; Lestrade was speechless. The detective didn't have a clue what to say. John didn't know what to do so he giggled, giggling louder when he heard the sharp intake of breath the detective inspector took as he heard the sound escape the doctor's mouth.
"We can't giggle at a crime scene stop it,"
And it was a crime scene wasn't it? Suicide was illegal.
John laughed at the thought of Lestrade arresting Sherlock for suicide.
But he couldn't could he? Because Sherlock hadn't just attempted suicide, he'd succeeded at said suicide.
John giggled again; wondering why he was giggling when he felt like crying.
"DONAVAN!" He heard Lestrade call, his voice was filled with some emotion John should be able to recognise; panic? Concern? Horror? But he didn't care. John knew this was a bit not good, but what did it matter? None of it mattered; the blackness was so inviting, only a few more breaths- "John? John, listen to me-"
It looked so silent, so calm, so utterly empty.
"John?"
He needed it, he craved it.
Sherlock, why'd you go? Why've you left me?
"-John, can you do that for me John? Can you? Just-"
"Keep your eyes fixed on me," The order came, followed by a few loud breaths on the other side of the phone. He dimly heard Lestrade's urgent voice trying to speak to him, but this was Sherlock. Sherlock had asked for John's attention and by gods Sherlock was going to have it. Another breathing sound came from the mobile device in his hand. Breathing? Wasn't breathing boring? "Please will you do this for me?"
"Do what?" He'd do anything, anything for Sherlock. Wasn't Sherlock dead? No- no why was he standing so high, on the edge. Just one tip of body weight- no Sherlock had fallen, blood, gore... already happened. John had been too late. They'd taken him away, away from him, away from JohnWatson, the army doctor with no tan above the wrists which meant he'd been abroad but not sunbathing, and didn't ask for a chair when he stood even though he had a limp which meant he forgotten about It; so it was at least partly psychosomatic .
God his head hurt, his chest hurt, his throat hurt. He ached- ached for Sherlock. He needed Sherlock. Sherlock was falling now, black coat billowing- like the small bird who took a leap of faith for the first time, black wings flapping, learning to fly- Learning to feel, I was going to teach you how to be Human damn it. I was going to teach you what it means to care, what it means to be loved Sherlock. The little bird was falling, Sherlock was falling. He was falling, falling down whilst the other bird in the nest could only watch as its brother fell silently to the ground.
Jesus, Sherlock, I'm sorry.
"So sorry,"
"John, can you hear me? John?"
"Goodbye John."
John fell into the embrace of the darkness willingly without even thinking of looking back; his pale lips spilling the words he had wanted to say before Sherlock fell- to stop him from falling, to keep his friend alive.
"Please don't go,"
Please, don't leave me alone.
"John! Can you hear me John, John?"
God, please don't go.
"Sherlock?"
"John?"
"Where are you?"
Silence.
"I'll follow you Sherlock, I'll follow you anywhere."
A pause.
"-Not this time John, not this time."
In the end Sherlock Holmes was, and always would be, John Watson's best friend, and he would never ever stop believing in him.
I hope it was okay, and that everyone enjoyed Series two of
Sherlock as much as I did.
If anyone wants me to write a sequel where John and Sherlock are reunited again just say so and i'll give it a go.
Thanks for reading!