Title: One Year
Rating: T
Pairing: None
Spoilers: 'The Reichenbach Fall'
Warnings: Implied drug use, suicide.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any of its characters. If I did, Sherlock would either be madly in love with John or an out asexual.
Summary: Sherlock comes home.
Author's Notes: Because I had to write some post-Reichenbach. Ooh my creys. Please enjoy! This is different from my usual style of writing...but I hope ya'll like it.
He has one destination: 221 B, Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes lets nothing stop him oh his way. He shoulders past several people, pushes others out of his way. He has just received a very important, very long awaited call.
"The last string is snapped. Your mission is complete. Go home, brother."
And home he was going. He sees the burgandy awning of Speedy's cafe in the distance, and quickens his pace, pale grey eyes locking on the gold letters he has missed so much.
221 B.
He knocks louder than he probably should, but his body is trembling with nerves and excitement. It has been three years since he'd seen his dear friends; Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John. His breath catches. Poor, poor John. How much he'd suffered.
Sherlock can't wait to see the look on his face.
The door opens. Mrs. Hudson looks older, much older than Sherlock had expected. She holds onto the edge of the door, peering out onto the street. She blinks several times; she can't believe what she's seeing. Then, finally, she speaks.
"Sherlock? Is that...you?"
He grins, opens his arms wide. Mrs. Hudson steps forward, and is enveloped in a large, strong embrace. Sherlock grins, restraining the urge to hold her tighter. She looks so fragile now. He's afraid of breaking her.
When Mrs. Hudson pulls away, Sherlock immediately spots that something is wrong. He can't quite figure it out, which surprises him. Himself, of all people, stumped? He puts his hands in his pockets, glancing up and down the street before asking, "Is John in? I...I need to apologize. For..."
Emotions flashed across Mrs. Hudson face, rapidly changing. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, cataloging each expression as it appeared.
Surprise. Alright, fine, expected. Worry...sadness? Unexpected. And...pity?
"Mrs. Hudson, something is wrong," Sherlock states. "What is it? What's happened?"
She doesn't respond. Instead, she lifts a hand to cover her mouth, making a soft, strained noise that resembles a whimper. Her eyes dart away ever time Sherlock attempts to look at her.
"Where's John?"
Again, delayed response. Just as Sherlock is about to protest again, she sucks in a long, stuttering breath.
"John...He's...He's gone, Sherlock."
Silence.
Sherlock furrows his brow. "He's moved," he guesses, tilting his head a bit. "He's left Baker Street." He can feel a nagging sensation, deep in his chest, pulling at him.
Something's wrong. Something's terribly, dreadfully wrong-
"No, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson's tone is firm, and she coughs, softening her voice.
"John is dead."
Sherlock steps backwards, his pale face draining of any color it had possessed. He could feel himself shaking, no longer from excitement. After a long period of silence, he looks up, clenching his fists at his sides.
"How?" he asks. "When?"
Pity is present on her face once more, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. "A year ago," Mrs. Hudson murmurs. "He just couldn't take it anymore. He was falling apart, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep-" She pauses, her voice cracking as tears form in her eyes. "I came upstairs one morning, to make him tea. He was sitting in his chair. It almost looked-" Another pause. She closes her eyes, tears spill over and run down her cheeks. "It almost looked like he was sleeping. The doctor said it'd been self-administered. Not an overdose: the exact amount to..."
Mrs. Hudson stops, unable to continue. She hides her face behind her hands, sobbing openly.
When she looks up, Sherlock is gone.
He looks down on West Smithfield for the second time in his life. The second time and the last. The conversation plays over and over in his mind. He tricked John here. He lied to John here.
He killed John here.
That's right, you bleeding pyschopath. You murdered John Watson. You ripped out his heart and then you killed him.
He takes a deep breath.
I'm sorry, John.
And jumps.