Song of the Stones~
Written for the characters of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes themselves. For John,because I know what it is to watch the "fall" of a friend. And for Sherlock , because I know what it is to be the one to fall.
In memory of a friendship that ended much too soon. Because I cared, for my part.
Chapter 1: Sweet Music of Madness
She pushes back the doors of the old church. Stands there in her white lab coat, like a ghost, haunting beneath the great echoing eves of this massive building...
Nobody can hear the music. And so, they all say John is crazy now...And for the most part, that is true. He hasn't been right since the day Sherlock Holmes fell out of the sky,like angels are swept from the wind.
She has come to make it right, maybe...That will be harder to do than she realized, initially.
Sherlock has taught John just a little too well...
Everything that's happened to him in the last 3 years, has been a fabrication of his "mind palace".Created out of a need to survive, but having no purpose,( other than clinging to the ripped threads of a life Sherlock left when he tore throught the curtains of heaven), he went ,well...mad. PTSD flaring to levels no longer held back by the danger of Sherlock's life, that had kept John safe,from the creeping wolves of the mundane.
But the Shepherd had left London, for the sole purpose of keeping the Choice of His Flock safe. But he couldn't save John from the wolves of his own dark memory. And with Sherlock gone, one by one they came slinking back in.
And to protect himself, John put into practice everything Sherlock had ever taught him. Created his own mind-palace. A Kingdom of Madness that kept him safe from his fear of the ordinary,where soldiers fall like the wooden toys of Christmas, useful for nothing but the occasional festive decoration of patriotism (so some soldiers ,such as our doctor, have been made to feel,it seems).
It is to be understood from the beginning of our story, as tragic as it is, Sherlock Holmes is dead. He did not survive his fall. He is not coming back. He knew that Moriarty's people WOULD kill John, if he did not jump, if not because of the boss's orders, then to revenge his unnatural end. So,Sherlock unraveled his web in advance. All his business was done before St. Bart's rooftop(which is what gave rise to Moriarty's last act, that caused the need for said tragic Fall). Because actually Sherlock Holmes was far more clever than anybody had every dared believe. And he solved their cases, busted their ring, over the internet, never having to leave London...(well, he did leave, eventually, that is the object of the sorrow of our narrative...) He busted it all up, and then broke into his brother's study one night with a laptop that had a password only Mycroft would be able to guess,literally leaving it all on his desk. Left also the answer for everyone's "Why?"
Why?
To save John. Yes, 'Crazy John'. 'Batty-man' as he'd been dubbed.
The one that believed, and was convinced, and of course, was right, that his Sherlock would never lie...
The one that had grieved to the point of insanity, and went on grieving in his madness, having fabricated a situation where Sherlock came back on the night he was proposing to his" highschool" girlfriend,Mary Morstan(who herself was dead before our story began, having succumbed to leukemia in their ,as Americans(such as the author) would say, "senior year" of highshcool.
And now, now...Molly held her breath.
Now he had ,in his mind, convinced himself, Sherlock was here to be his best man. And that long -lost- love Mary was alive, and well, and that today was the day of their wedding. And that she would be the mother of his unborn(never-having-existed-to-be-born) child.
And he currently was dancing with an invisible bride, in the sanctuary of a long- abandoned church somewhere in a darker, less frequented end of Old London.
And Molly would have agreed with everyone else, that kind and good John was indeed as mad as Alice's Old Hatter...save that..
She too could hear the music, weeping from an invisible best man's violin.
She closed her eyes, and drank in the waltz that Sherlock had written from beyond the grave.
Because maybe Sherlock was only here in their minds...
But ONLY Sherlock, could have written something like that...
Of course, he was lingering...On the edges of thought,his breath like the trace of vapor from the sea, his blood like the trace of wine on the unwashed glass. And a Winter's London, was as hollow as this upturned glass, without him...He was still here...somewhere lingering in the corridors of John's Mind Asylum, here to give his last perfomance,his last assistance, if he might.
He was here,Molly heard him...felt him...
"Sherlock?" she whispered.
The joy on John's face , became more than she could bear, because it only added such volume to her own sorrow.
She stumbled out into the old church graveyard...shallow, and iron fenced, and musty, and snow-fallen, where trees bowed their heads to pray.
She went and sat under a stooped old oak,and wept...as the music bled outside to her, and hung in the air like fragrance, like the waft of smoke from winter's welcome-fire...
"Molly?" he answered her...And she perked up...
"Oh...Am I...going crazy too?Will that ...I suppose that's ok...I mean...Well..."
"Molly..." he says...softly,the wind rustles over leaves. He sounds on the edge of tears.
She remembers the night she helped him...Then remembers,that she herself "mind palaced" that night, forced to go into that terrible hospital again after dark, a few nights after the deed was done. Had to believe he would have let her help him. But whole conversation had been a lie, only in her mind...As well as was the whole scenario where she helped him scheme a way to cheating Death.
Death and Destiny had come to collect the debt that all men must pay, and only God can pay in full...
"Sherlock...you're dead...you can't...I can't..see you anymore..."
"You aren't seeing me...we're talking,so you are actually hearing me."
"Sherlock...don't...don't do this...I...It's...well...bad enough, that you are gone...but can't you just STAY gone,if you have to go-no wait! sorry!...please...don't go..."
Silence...He hadn't been there after all...
"Will you help me?..."he asks, out of thin air,literally , and she cries out, and stands up.
It may be in her mind, but she sees him, standing in the graveyard, as the snow falls gently, coat tossed ,like waves of dark water, about his legs in the wind.
"Or...more preciscely, will you help me to help John...?"
She swallows, and rubs her tears away...
"But...you aren't...real..."
"Is that relevant?" he asks, sadly, and stops short. Had been walking towards her.
Oh,but he looks SO REAL.
Snow clinging to his hair that is like the night incarnate about his pale face...Eyes of piercing sapphire, and emerald mixed together,indeed are heavy with the tears, he won't allow himself to weep.
The winter wind swirls fallen leaves about him, and gives him dimension. And lifts the sky-blue scarf ,for the sake of familiarity.
"Sherlock..." she stumbles closer...
And he doesn't disappear.
She reaches, and touches the icey cheek.
Cold, but solid.
He is so very real... and smiling... though his heart shattered already ,on the pavement.
"Will you...help me?" he whispers,low in his throat, like when the wind shushes the growls of sleepless thunder.
She looks back towards the church...where the "Wedding" has been.
She smiles..."What do you need?"
He smiles back..."Just...you.." he raises empty hands,as if for once, even he, hasn't a clue.
She nods...and breaks into tears, and he thumbs them away...
"But..how?"
He holds out a hand to her..Wants her to come with him. Reaches into nothingness, and lifts therefrom a look-alike of Mycroft's umbrella , opens it as the rain begins to weep for them,and takes her arm.
"First we go to see Mary...We'll need her help too ...if he is ever going to be free..And then...then we'll have to go wake up Jim Moriarty,and I'll make him make his amends, no matter how many hand shakes in hell it takes to do it..."