Set after series 2 of Sherlock and in season 5 of Supernatural. AUverse.
Rated T + dark themes. Please note the genres.
Beta'ed by Lohis, thank you!
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Sherlock. Obviously.
One More Sunrise
One.
The abandoned house is illuminated by harsh grey daylight and the body of a thirty-something male is lying face down on the wooden floor of the living room.
Three men stand around the corpse.
One of the men kicks the body around to its back. All the skin visible is scarred by ugly open gashes, like burn-marks and patches of peeled-off skin.
"So it has really happened," the second man says, staring down at the body.
The first man looks quickly at the third member of the team. "Any ideas where he might have run off to?"
The third man frowns at the corpse. "I do not know his specific location. I can only suspect he is attempting to acquire another temporary vessel to continue the apocalypse and the hunt for his true vessel."
The second man shifts uneasily, looking at his companions. "So for a short while he's out of the game, then? Is there anything we could do to use it to get the upper hand?"
The third man stares at the ground with a grim frown still on his face. "There might be something. I must investigate."
Then he disappears with a quiet fluttering sound.
There's a short silence before the first man huffs in annoyance.
"I hate it when he does that."
.
It is raining in London.
The sky has the colour of an ugly concrete wall, a tired hue of grey that makes you sigh sombrely just by looking at it. There is a slight drizzle falling from the sky, just that annoying amount of rain that makes people consider whether or not they are bothered to dig up their umbrellas or just endure it.
Many people already have their brollies opened and protecting them from the summer rain.
John Watson does not.
He stands there in the drizzling rain, waiting for the traffic light for pedestrians to turn green.
Cars roar past – fashionable new passenger cars, occasional buses, quite a few black cabs. His fellow commuters stand impatiently at the side of the street with him.
The rain grows stronger. John Watson doesn't care.
He could get to the flat faster via public transport, he knows, but he doesn't like buses (they are always late) or the Underground (always full of people and he has absolutely no desire to crawl there with hordes of other commuters anxious to get moving).
He doesn't like cabs either. Not anymore. Not when there is always an oppressive lack of a certain presence beside him, a screaming absence of rapid speaking and deductions and angry tapping on smartphone and just the emptiness of that simple feeling of companionship.
The light turns green. He briskly crosses the street.
It is still raining. The sky has the colour of dead skin.
.
Greg's uncharacteristically hesitant voice fills the room.
"Hullo John, how are you doing? I mean – damn it – uh, are you okay, mate? Just, well, you haven't been returning my calls and though I know you probably don't want to hear a thing about me right now I just, you know, got a little worried. So, um, if you could just send me a text or... yeah. What now...? (muffled speaking) Sorry, I have to go now. Anyway, I hope you're doing better."
John deletes the voicemail. And the next three too without even listening to them.
.
He is still staying at Baker Street.
In the beginning it was nearly impossible for him to live there. All the stuff Sherlock had left behind, just lying around the flat like they were unaware that their owner would never return. The science equipment in the kitchen, the violin lying by the sofa, the pack of nicotine patches on the table. It was like the sleuth's possessions were emitting an oppressive aura that crawled around the flat, stained the walls and the furniture and the very being of the building.
Then Mrs. Hudson and he had packed off the science equipment and got rid of the experiments. The kitchen had been squeaky clean since then.
At the time John had hated it. Still does. Now the flat smells nearly sterile, like a hospital.
No matter how hard it was to stay, it was downright impossible to leave. He couldn't lose it yet. The flat felt like the only thing still tying his current nightmarish existence to his life Before. If he moved into some cramped yet empty flat further away from the city, it would be like watching the last traces of his former life evaporating into thin air.
Later on he nearly changed his mind. He even started packing his things. Then he just – stopped, torn between the urge to leave and the yearning to stay.
He stayed. For now. And now half of his books are neatly in cardboard boxes in the corner of his room.
Ella thinks staying was a bad choice. It probably was.
.
It is raining again. The Don't walk light burning bloody red.
The therapy session has once more felt totally, utterly pointless. He is still visiting the psychiatrist –of course he is, it has still been just about a month and he knows that quitting the sessions now will be a Bit Not Good (after all, he is aware of the whole "doctors are the worst patients" –saying). He also suspects a certain bastard playing the puppet master in the British Government is still monitoring his comings and goings and will immediately alert a bunch of people if John is to suddenly cease continuing the therapy. People he has zero desire to see right now.
It still doesn't change the fact that the hours spent with Ella feel like a terrible waste of time and energy. He hates it, he realized a while back, hates to sit there and endure her probing and questions and neutrally sympathetic face.
He is bitter and annoyed about the fact that most patients probably feel just the same while in therapy after such a trauma.
He doesn't even know whether Ella believes what the press is still saying or not. He has his doubts though. There was something in her eyes when he had asked about it from her. Sadness bordering pity.
Or maybe he is just paranoid.
He scoffs to himself.
The traffic light turns green.
.
One more night spent at the surgery. One more mundane yet busy night. That is all he needs, a busy job demanding his full concentration. So that time will fly and his mind will be occupied and hopefully he will be tired enough to just collapse into bed and sleep a dreamless night till noon.
He's sauntering down the street, slowly approaching the door with the glimmering letters of 221B. It's late and the street is quiet. The sky is covered with brownish clouds.
His leg isn't aching, not really. There is still something in it, like a shadow of stiffness. He briefly wonders if it's possible to have a psychosomatic pain of a psychosomatic pain. A phantom ache from a pain that wasn't really there in the first place.
He stops by the right door and fishes his keys from the depths of his pocket.
A gust of wind blows down the street. It feels like it goes straight through his jacket and into his bones.
The streetlight flickers and dies.
His gaze snaps up and he turns to rake his eyes over the street. There is nothing there, nobody in sight, not even an alley cat wandering around. Across the street an open window is banging against its frame. The noise echoes around the otherwise silent streets.
He sees nothing out of place, though it still feels like there was something lurking there, just outside the range of the streetlights.
He slowly turns back to the door and manages to open it. Before he pulls it closed once more he takes one more glance at the night.
Nothing out of order.
But still, there is something in the air, something indescribable, a chilling breath that wraps around his limbs and chest.
He closes the door and walks up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson isn't home, he knows. She's visiting her sister who is ill. He knows she didn't want to leave him alone but he had assured her he would be fine.
The cold feeling remains, following him up the stairs and into the flat and to the kitchen where he once more forces himself to make just one cup of tea.
An hour later he sits in front of the telly, the empty cup of tea on the sofa table. Only when the TV flickers and starts to show a grey-white mess he realizes he has no idea what he has been watching, because he hasn't really been watching anything. He wonders if he is tired enough to go to bed without staying awake for a couple of hours. He isn't sure. He doesn't want to take the risk.
The TV flickers again and shuts down completely. So does the lamp in the corner, after a few dying flashes. He is left in the dark.
He stands up and walks to the windows. The orange light of the streetlights slips past the curtains, bringing some light into the otherwise gloomy flat.
He walks to the lamp in the corner and tries in vain to switch it on. The TV, too, stays black.
He ends up standing in the middle of the living room, trying to understand the source of his unexplainable sense of uneasiness.
In the end, he decides to retreat into his bedroom.
.
He hasn't bothered to look at his alarm clock in a long time. It feels like he has been lying there in the darkness of his room for several nights already, and the sunrise just refuses to come. In reality, it cannot have been any more than a few hours – at most.
He stares at the ceiling and tries to think of nothing.
He wonders if he should move out from Baker Street. It would probably be for the best. Hard, sure, but maybe he then could begin to actually sleep his nights instead of laying awake for hours and hours before finally succumbing into restless slumber.
He has a feeling tomorrow morning he'll once more decide he'll stay a little longer. That's how the cycle goes.
Then he hears it.
The violin.
Beautiful notes emitting from downstairs, reaching the stairs and slithering through his door. Melancholic, trembling notes wrapping around each other in the air and forming the most heartbreaking melody mankind has ever had a chance to hear.
It takes a while for John to realize he's nearly hyperventilating.
He sits up on the bed, back stiff and eyes wide as he stares into the dark and listens to the notes drag on, one after another.
He tries to wake up, because this has to be a dream, there is no other option. He hasn't heard those beautiful melodies for so long and he knows he never will again, and still the unmistakeable sounds of the violin are very real and clear in the otherwise utterly silent house.
Oh God. He must be hallucinating. There's no other way.
Or maybe...or maybe it's a miracle and if he rushes downstairs he will find his friend there, alive and okay and playing his beloved instrument as so many times before.
After that thought enters his mind he cannot help but stagger up and out into the hallway. Although he knows he must be dreaming because this is just the type of dream he's had for the past month, he just has to be sure...
He stomps downstairs and barges into the living room. It's dark and empty. The music that was present just seconds ago in the echoing hallway is now gone like it was never there.
He flexes his fingers as he stands rigidly in the middle of the room that is still faintly lit up by the streetlights worming their glow inside.
Then he hears it again, the soft notes dancing in the air. He whirls around. The bedroom. The other bedroom at the back of the kitchen. He must be there.
He quickly strides through the kitchen and reaches for the closed door he hasn't opened for weeks.
It's like his feet suddenly freeze to the floor as he stops dead on his tracks just before the door. He stares down at the floor.
There's blood coming from under the door, slowly trickling down to the kitchen until it's not just a small drip but a freaking stream, flowing thickly towards him.
He dimly realizes he's walking backwards, shaking his head and swallowing up panicked shouts, drowning the grim, melancholic wails of the alluring violin.
He closes his eyes and stands hunched between the kitchen and the living room, his shoulders trembling.
When he dares to look up the blood has disappeared. So has the haunting violin.
He escapes up to his room, locks the door and sits on his bed till dawn.
.
Next day he arrives to the surgery tired and looking like he hasn't slept since spring. It really feels like he hasn't.
Sarah comes to talk to him during the coffee break. She is worried, he knows and she asks if he's okay.
Of course I'm fine, he wants to say. Just bloody becoming insane, but that's fine.
She looks at him with pity disguised as sympathy and then, very carefully asks if it is the best choice of action to continue working if he's clearly not feeling fell.
"I am feeling well," he argues curtly. "Just had coffee too late, nothing serious."
Damn. Sherlock would probably insult him for weeks for such an obvious lie.
Sarah knows it's a lie but she nods. He tells her he'll be better tomorrow, really.
.
Evening arrives too quickly.
He's again in the flat, sitting in his armchair and drinking a glass of scotch (just one, mind you, he's not about to turn into his sister anytime soon). The TV isn't working again, and the lights flicker. He thinks about calling to the electricity company tomorrow and asking them about it.
He doesn't want to go to sleep.
Maybe he'll just sit here until the morning comes. That's a very bad plan, he knows but he doesn't want to return to his room.
And if he stays here for the night, maybe the music doesn't return at all. Or maybe he'll catch a glimpse of the violinist himself. He doesn't know which of the options he wishes for.
He sighs and stands up, planning to take the empty glass to the kitchen
His eyes flicker to the skull on the mantelpiece. It has a crack on the brow.
It is bleeding.
There are small trickles of blood dripping from the crack on the bony rim, trickling over the empty eye socket and down the smirking teeth and onto the mantelpiece and to the floor.
The glass drops from his numb fingers and shatters onto the floor.
He picks up the shards the next morning when he finally comes down from his bedroom. The skull is once more flawless.
.
The next day is grey and rainy. At work, Sarah looks at him suspiciously but doesn't say anything. He is very thankful for that.
He nearly dreads to return to the flat. That is the only place he feels like he is truly losing his mind. But he doesn't know how to do anything else so hours later he is once again walking up the stairs to the flat. Mrs. Hudson is still away.
That night he goes to bed at eleven, much earlier than usual. Tonight, he decides, he'll get a good night's sleep and not doubt his sanity once.
An hour later he descends to the living room to sleep on the couch.
Two hours later he wakes up to the feeling of someone else in the flat. In the living room.
He opens his eyes.
Sherlock is sitting in his armchair.
AN: I started to write this story ages ago and only last summer managed to properly finish it. I have no idea if anyone else has written a story similar to this one, but at least I haven't seen a crossover like it. Anyway, the next chapter will be posted in a week or so.
Thank you very much for reading and please leave a review and tell me what you think!