So I was listening to Pandora, and Nothing by The Script came on. For whatever reason, the song inspired me to write a Sherlock fic.
Thank you for reading!
Hope you enjoy :)
The pale tall man flounced into 221B Baker Street. His confident gait betrayed none of his anxiety.
He had given up on trying to delete any emotions relating to his flat mate. At first, he had allowed the sentiment to exist with exasperation and defeat, but as the weeks turned into months and the months turned into years, all hostility towards the emotions faded. They were the only things keeping John's specter present.
As the self-appointed case of eliminating Moriarty's criminal web began, the detective saw John everywhere. The apparition was ignored at first, obviously a result of his mind, yet it never faded. When he mentally deduced, the specter responded with exuberant praise. The detective was unaware that, even in the beginning, the imaginary exclamations "brilliant" and "fantastic" brought a minuscule smirk to his lips.
Time passed, and the ghost became a welcome presence. The detective no longer ignored it; rather, he spoke, unleashing all of his thoughts and deductions upon the manifestation of his dear friend.
He only spoke of the mission at hand. He never talked about their time at Baker Street, why he had faked his death, or what he planned to do once he could return to his home.
Those thoughts, those sentimental thoughts, were saved for quiet moments after he destroyed a bit of the web. He would lie on the ground, stare up at the twinkling heavens, and let his thoughts overwhelm him. The stars finally had a purpose; they reminded him of John. The army medic had completely turned the detective's world upside down with his enthusiastic praise and numerous jumpers. John cared about him when no one, not even himself, did. As time passed, the detective stopped questioning himself and either pondered the past or imagined the future.
The memories would rush in, reminding the detective of better times. He would think of the giggling at crime scenes; he would think of the numerous chases throughout London as they hunted clues and criminals alike.
If he wasn't remembering better times, the detective would be pondering his mental state. Why did thoughts of John fill him with longing and euphoria? Why did he consider John his home rather than Baker Street? It wasn't logical to think of home as a person rather than an abode, yet it felt so right to think of John as his home. How could anything or anyone else compare to the doctor?
The thing he did the rarest was imagine the future. He saved those thoughts for when he was feeling the lowest or the highest (he didn't get high drug-wise anymore; John didn't want him to lapse back into bad habits). When euphoria fogged his mind, he didn't analyze his thoughts with detached logic. Instead, he thought of a happy reunion with his friend. He thought of continuing their cases; he thought of living together for as long as possible. Only when he was as absolutely happy as he could get in the situation did he think of returning to John and continuing their lives as something decidedly more than friends.
More often than not, however, he was at his lowest when he thought of the future. He went over every possible reunion scenario until his eyes stung with tears his pride would never let flow. Whether they were tears of longing or despair, he never knew. Most scenarios ended with things never returning to the same rhythm they once held, some ended with John getting married and leaving the flat, and a few ended with a return to their friendship, never changing for the good or bad. He didn't know which of the three was the worst.
As he snapped himself out of his thoughts, he looked at the staircase.
The seventeen steps stood in front of him. With each step, he thought of the past, all they were, and the future, all they could be.
Although his steps were slow and controlled, he felt as though he had sprinted. In no time at all, the door to their flat was inches from him. He paused, collecting his chaotic thoughts as best he could, and steeled his features into the familiar apathetic mask.
The door creaked as he pushed it open. He looked around the flat, deducing everything he could about the three years he had missed, but nothing could've prepared him for what hung, limp, off of the couch.
A familiar arm dangled from the side of the couch, fingertips brushing the hard floor.
He rushed to the seat and as he faced the couch, he saw the body resting there as though asleep. The doctor's body was curled, his back facing the detective. He breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out to the doctor's arm to check his pulse, just to be certain.
A very faint pulse greeted his shaking fingers, weakening with every beat. He looked over his flat mate's body and froze when he saw the blood seeping through the doctor's jumper, near the stomach. He stared at the blood on the couch, appalled. His mind flashed back to something he had read about stabbing injuries. The stomach was one of the worst places to stab if you wanted a quick death. His mind began analyzing every little detail about the injury; it was the first time he hated his mind since primary school.
The knife's handle stuck out from under the bloody couch. The detective picked it up, disgusted at the blood-soaked weapon. His attention left the knife (what did an object matter when his friend was dying/dead on the couch?) as his eyes scanned the doctor once more.
John's eyes were unfocused, though at a sound the detective involuntarily made, John looked at his face. His legs shook, moving of their own accord as they knelt beside the couch. His hands cradled the doctor's face; his thumb gently stroked John's cheek.
"It worked." John rasped, a small smile flashed across his pained face. His eyes glistened with sheer happiness, a single tear cascading from the doctor's right eye. Before the detective could negate or affirm the statement, the doctor's face changed as life left the body and death took its place.
His brain was unable to grasp the meaning of the glazed eyes, nonexistent heartbeat, and limp body.
"No! John. John. John! JOHN!"
His voice broke and his hands shook as he jostled John's shoulders.
His vision blurred as tears streamed down his face. Grief overwhelmed him. He truly understood Mycroft's "caring is not an advantage" speeches.
What was he supposed to do now? Take up cases again? Who would be there to support him? Who would be there to explain his deductions to? Who would be there to appreciate him?
Everything he had worked hard for was worthless. Everything he had done was to protect John. The only person who had truly cared about the detective.
John was the one person that had accepted the eccentric detective 100%; he was the one person who saw his flaws and didn't run screaming. John was his person, the only one allowed to see the detective as a human being rather than a sociopathic machine.
Before John, he had valued his solitary life. The doctor had changed everything, made life so much better, but the detective had only realized it after his death was faked. He had thought those three years were the worst of his life- and that was when he had known John was alive. Life without John, life truly vacant of the doctor's existence, was too horrible to imagine, let alone cope with.
He noticed the bloody knife once more. He stared at the blood-drenched blade, his hand reaching toward the slick handle.
Mrs. Hudson hummed as she carried the groceries into her flat. After putting her purchases where they belonged, she stood in silence. Something wasn't right. Something was off.
She immediately thought of John. He had seemed like he was doing better lately, although Mrs. Hudson had caught him smiling at chairs and murmuring under his breath. The little she understood of his mutterings troubled her; it sounded as though he was carrying a conversation with the detective...
Her unease grew. She decided to go upstairs, just to check on him. Maybe he would want a cuppa...
She hurried up the steps and softly opened the door.
"John?"
Walking further into the flat, she turned and froze.
John was lying on the couch, his fatal self-inflicted wound oozing blood.
Sherlock's body was on the floor, facing the doctor, a long cut across his pale throat. Blood was everywhere, on the detective, on the couch, on the floor...
The knife gleamed in the light of the lamp, drenched in the blood of both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
The reason the song made me think of writing the story like I did is because it mentions calling out the loved one's name and receiving silence. I decided to take that and make it a different negative; instead of having John not answer Sherlock's call because he moved on without his flat mate, he doesn't respond because he left to be WITH the detective, even though Sherlock wasn't really dead.
Thank you again for reading!
Feedback is much appreciated!