Author's note: This story is for the prompt "Taking a Tumble" and it is inspired by Charles Dicken's The Chimes; it's one of his Christmas books, but takes place at New Year's, and I couldn't resist.
I don't own anything, please review.
There was an old church in an old street in the old city of London.
Not many people knew that it existed. John supposed Sherlock did, after all he knew every street by heart, but he didn't care.
Not like John did.
When the fighting and shouting had become too much, when Harry had locked herself in hsi room and his father had stormed out of the hosue and his mother had started to prepare a dinner that would never be eaten out of habit, trying to hold back her tears, John had slipped out into the dark and walked the few streets down to this church, his church.
It was his, even if he didn't know anything about it.
He only knew it was an old church, and that its bells still rung out every hour.
And the bells told him to Keep on, Don't worry, You'll be fine, reassuring him again and again that one day, his life would be different.
So it was, but he never stopped visiting his church and listening to the bells.
Especially when he was upset.
He couldn't recall how many times he had come here after he had been invalided home, but then not even the bells had given him comfort, all he could hear being Useless and Unimportant and Limping, and he'd been convinced that that was all he'd ever hear again when he'd run into Mike Stamford.
That didn't mean he didn't get frustrated after meeting Sherlock. It would be impossible not to be frustrated now and then when one was friends and living with Sherlock Holmes.
The bells had helped. The bells had calmed him down after he'd stormed out, and his friend had been none the wiser, had only deduced that he'd spend hours "wandering around" and John didn't contradict him, feeling better after listening to the bells Remember what you have, He isn't that bad, You know he cares.
Occasionally, he wondered what Ella would have said if he'd told her he could understand what the bells were saying to him. He didn't care. They were his friends, and he listened to them.
Most of the time.
He tried to, when Sherlock was gone. But he couldn't bear more than a few minutes of He's gone, He's gone, He's gone, until he had to flee back to his new, small, empty flat, no matter how often he came back, hoping he'd hear something else.
When Sherlock returned, he had been too preoccupied to do anything else than shout at him, hit him, hug him and move back into 221B, but a few weeks later, he had come back to the church, as he always did, listening to their joyful sounds as they told the city Sherlock Holmes was back where he belonged.
Yet, after these two years, after the grief and the disbelief and the joy, Sherlock still found ways to aggravate him, and John returned to his church.
Especially because there was –
He was ashamed to admit it –
He felt like he didn't matter. Which was absurd, because Sherlock had come back, and he'd told him that he'd faked his death to save his friends, "first of all, you".
John should be proud, but he wasn't, not when Sherlock hadn't told him he was alive.
It was ridiculous; Sherlock had explained his reasons –
But John had been in the army. John could take care of himself. And John would have gone anywhere with him, if the consulting detective had asked. Sherlock knew that.
And he hadn't asked.
John could have helped. He liked to think he could. Taking care of Moriarty's web, looking after Sherlock's wounds. Keeping him company.
And Sherlock hadn't asked.
So, despite everything, he couldn't help but feel useless.
And since he had admitted it to himself, the bells told him the same.
He didn't know why he kept coming back, really. All they had told him for weeks now was the same they had told him when he'd returned from the war, Useless, Useless, Useless, and he really shouldn't be here, not on the last day of the old year. Sherlock was at 221B, Mrs. Hudson was there, Greg and Molly had promised to drop in.
But he was here, listening to the bells for hours now. He didn't know if it was past midnight. He hadn't taken his phone with him.
He was feeling too depressed.
A new year was coming, or already there, and he was too depressed to celebrate with his friends, with one friend in particular, who had been nothing but careful of his comfort (well, the Sherlock version of it) since he had returned.
On an impulse, John started walking towards the church and didn't know what he was about to do until he opened the door.
He suddenly realized he had never been inside it. It had always looked so abandoned –
But he didn't look around now. Following the same strange impulse, he kept walking, passing by the altar and the pews without seeing them –
Right to the door of the bell tower. He didn't know why he was so sure where to go – it was too dark for him to see – but he did. And he kept going.
It didn't matter that the stairs were old, and probably unsafe.
He had to see the bells, the bells that kept ringing out Useless, Useless, Useless.
For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that the bells must have been ringing for hours, and yet he had seen no one in or about the church, but he forgot about it in the next moment.
When he stepped onto the platform at the top of the tower –
He saw the bells. But he also saw much more.
The room was bathed in light, a light that had no source and made the old bells (and old they must be, far older than John or any of the houses that surrounded the church) look new, shining golden.
And it almost seemed like they were smiling at him.
There was more.
All about him, there were – small creatures, like the goblins he had seen in a fairytale book when he'd been a small boy, and they were laughing and chasing each other around or spinning around themselves, and –
He could see London. Not just the city from above – he wouldn't have seen much if he'd tried to look out of the windows, they were small and dirty – but London as it lived and breathed, people celebrating the new year, with their friends or families or alone but content, or sad amidst many people, but the goblins were everywhere, cheering them on or trying to cheer them up, sometimes it was difficult to tell.
"What – " he began to ask, and later he would think that he might well have been a little bit more confused.
"The spirits of the bells" a young voice rang out, and John turned around to see a child standing in a corner, happily watching the goblins.
"The spirits of the bells."
"Of course. What else do you think has watched over this city?"
John blinked.
"And you are – "
"Well, someone has to look after them, too" the child answered cheerfully. He didn't elaborate, and John was about to ask more questions when it added, "But this isn't about us. It's about you".
"Me?"
"Yes. You are a friend of the bells. But you have lost your belief."
John started to protest.
"If I had stopped believing in them talking to me, I wouldn't have come back – "
"Not in them, John" the child explained, patiently. "In you. In your friend. It's time you learn to again. From the one who means the most to you."
Before John could say another word, the child had pushed him and he felt himself falling down the tower.
It was quite high for such a small church, and John was wondering why he didn't feel scared while he was falling to his death when he found himself standing at the platform again, looking down at his shattered body.
The knowledge that he was dead didn't scare him anymore than the fall.
The bells were still ringing, and they were repeating the child's last words.
From the one who means the most to you.
It was New Year's Day, but not the one he'd died. John couldn't say how he was aware of the fact, but he was.
Greg and Anderson were standing over a body. So the forensic tech had eventually come back to the Yard. Sherlock had muttered something about it "being the least of all evils" the other day.
Anderson looked around, then bit his lip.
"Sir..."
"He takes his time, these days" Greg said. He sounded defeated. "Especially at this time –"
"Three years" Anderson interrupted him softly. The DI nodded.
Sherlock appeared on the scene, but he wasn't the Sherlock John knew.
He was walking much slower, and there was a vacant look in his eyes. John didn't like it.
"I have plans, Lestrade. Let's do this quickly."
John frowned. Lestrade? Sherlock hadn't called Greg by his last name since he'd got back. Something had happened.
Could it be –
No. He refused to think about it.
Sherlock solved the case as John watched on, dictated his findings to Anderson (who now and then glanced up from his note-taking, a worried expression on his face) and left without so much as a goodbye to Greg.
In a small corner of the scene, John saw a young Police Constable and Sergeant Donovan, who were chasing away curious onlookers.
"They say he wasn't always like that" the PC commented, his eyes following Sherlock's retreating form.
"They say he changed after his flatmate jumped down a tower – "
"Keep out of his business" Donovan told him with as much venom as she had used when calling Sherlock "freak" all these years ago.
The one who means the most to you.
Before John understood that the Sergeant was defending Sherlock, he looked upon another New Year.
Mrs. Hudson was cleaning the flat. It looked messier than John had ever seen it. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, thin and pale, corpse-like, and his heart clenched.
"Dear, I think you should clean this place now and then. Look, your chemistry set is dusty. Why don't you do some experiments? Or what about a case? You haven't been to a crime scene in months. It would cheer you up".
"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
John didn't know if Mrs. Hudson's wish to have Sherlock perform experiments was worse, or Sherlock's uncaring answer hurt the most.
Who means the most to you.
Greg and Molly stood in the flat, a flat that was cold and quiet and dirty.
The silence that reigned over it told John all he needed to know.
They didn't look much older; it couldn't have been more than ten years since the doctor had –
"You don't have to" Greg said softly, taking Molly's hand. He glanced at Sherlock's door, and there was nothing but grief and pain in his eyes.
"I know what I will find" she replied softly. "We owe him that much."
They opened the door –
"No!" John cried, the strange lethargy he'd been feeling all this time evaporating. "Not him! Please, please – "
He woke up at the platform.
The bells weren't ringing anymore.
John was alive.
He had never run so fast before.
He arrived at 221B just a few minutes to midnight, if the clock in the hallway was anything to go by, and he raced up the stairs.
When he opened the door, Sherlock was standing in front of the sofa, Mrs. Hudson was sitting in John's stair, and Molly and Greg came out of the kitchen.
Sherlock stared at him and frowned, the others seemed relieved to see him.
John didn't pay attention to anyone else, didn't hear what they said; he simply rushed forward and hugged his best friend, alive and well, and his heart beat loudly in his chest.
The consulting detective hugged him back (albeit a little confused), before pushing him away slightly and studying his face.
"John?"
"I'm fine" he interrupted all questions that were sure to come. "It's all fine. Let's ring the New Year in."
He smiled at his friends, and miraculously, not even Sherlock asked anymore that night.
John beamed at his best friend as he was filling the champagne glasses and knew he would tell Sherlock everything tomorrow, and that they would go to the church and listen to the bells ring out Home and Safe and Friend.
Tomorrow.
Tonight, he was celebrating a new year full of possibilities and people that mattered.
Author's note: Guten Rutsch (slide well into the next day), and a Happy New Year!
Hekate