Title:
Pack Up the Moon and Dismantle the Sun
Disclaimer:
Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary:
Post-TRF, S/J, A series of drabbles inspired by the poem Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden.
Rating:
PG-13
Warnings:
Mourning/Grief, depression, suicidal thoughts, angst, post-TRF
Pairings/Characters:
John Watson
Word Count:
1,736
Author's Note:
So, I originally heard the poem read in the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral (which is a really good, but sad movie). When I saw the scene again, I immediately thought of John after Sherlock's fall. The title is from the poem.
xXx
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
The silence is the thing that gets him. It clings and smothers, filling his ears and mouth and nose until he drowns in it, all he can see is the silence. The flat shouldn't be this silent. Every passing car is a scream in his head and heart that the next one is Sherlock in a taxi and each time, the car continues passed. The clock up on the shelf ticks away and John just wants to break it, stop time, reverse it to that one point. His phone rings, shrilly in the quiet, he ignores it. It's not Sherlock.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
His limp is back. It came back the moment he felt no pulse in Sherlock's wrist, the moment his world stopped, color leeching out. Each step sends pain into his brain, but it is easily ignored, overshadowed, outclassed by the throbbing, tearing beat of his heart. You see, half of it is gone now, taken away, ripped out and smashed under foot. He's not whole anymore, never will be. It will always be a gaping wound in his chest. Somewhere ahead, a dog starts to bark loudly only to be silenced suddenly with a yelp. John just keeps walking forward.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Mycroft's club is silent, but not like the flat. This silence is enforced, is wanted, and even cherished by these aging men with far too many secrets. Greg's already there, dressed in black, tie done up neatly, shoes polished. Mycroft's as ever in order, his attire suitable for a funeral. John could really care less if they go naked. It wouldn't matter. Sherlock would have probably gotten a laugh out of that image. The car is silent; no sound coming from outside, it is soundproofed. He feels smothered and each beat of his heart echoes dully in his chest soundlessly.
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
John only blinks at all the people gathered. He'd never realized how many people Sherlock had helped over the years. He doesn't stare long, eyes drawn like a magnet to the coffin as it's carried across the manicured lawn to the waiting hole that will be its home. He stands ramrod straight as it passes, cane held in a white knuckled grip, his left hand shaking. He wants to snatch the coffin away, rip open the lid and shake Sherlock, yell at him to wake up, stop faking this. He watches as it's lowered into the ground and covered up.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
It's quiet now that everyone's left. There are others around him, seeing to loved ones. Sherlock would scoff at John labeling him a 'loved one.' John looks down at the white rose in his hand and wonders how this will help. How does placing flowers on someone's grave year after year ease the ache that's left behind and fill the void in the heart? His hand tightens and pinpricks of pain blossom and he watches beads of blood well up and fall from his hand to the earth below. If giving his blood would bring Sherlock back, he'd drain himself.
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'./i
His page is blank. How can he write anything now? It's only hours after the funeral and his thoughts are dried up. He can feel them waiting, watching, wanting to see what he will write about the once great detective. What could he say; everyone already knows about what happened, the story plastered all over the news, the internet. There are words he wants to write, to rant and rave and defend the most human, human being he ever knew, but they always get stuck at his fingertips. He pulls the laptop closer and types three words: "He is dead."
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
He ignores the stares. They always stare wherever he goes and he will not be swayed from his walk through the park today. The funny thing is no one knows the significance of the park, of the day he re-met Mike Stamford and acquired a flat mate in the same day. He feels drawn to follow the same path he took to Bart's. He gets as far as the other side of the park and stops. He can't, can't cross that line, the street. He turns away, walking away from the only truly good thing to ever happen to him.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
Life goes on as it always does. People lose interest in the scandal of Sherlock Holmes, go on to new things. For John, everything is stopped. The flat is no different since the way they had left it that morning. There is still never any milk in the fridge and the skull still stares blankly from the mantle over the fireplace. He hasn't foot into Sherlock's room once this whole time. John is stuck in time and doesn't know how to restart time and whether he wants to restart it. He sits in his chair and sips at his tea.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
The nightmares are nothing new. The only thing to change is the content. Before, he dreamed of blood and sand and people's cries for help and relief. Now, all he sees is one thing, one person. He's always frozen to the same spot, helpless, forced to watch every time, every damn time as Sherlock falls. Again and again he watches a never ending reel. It is his own hell, his own punishment for not being able to save his friend. Sherlock meant everything to him, and now he was gone. John is without direction, his inner compass broken beyond repair.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
He works at the clinic still. Sarah never fired him, even after all the grief he put her through chasing after his crazy flat mate. It gives him something to do, something to keep his hands busy while his mind remains a blank void. He used to love medicine, but now it is just a job. He has lost all the joy of helping people, healing them. It is just another reminder that he wasn't able to save Sherlock, despite being such a good doctor. John smiles genially at his next patient, his lips numb and stiff with the gesture.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
The first moment after he wakes up is probably the easiest of his day. For that one split second, he doesn't remember, doesn't feel the void in his chest. Then is all comes rushing back in and it hurts worse than the day before. He feels guilty for having forgotten, even in that small of a moment. He wonders when this will stop. When will the mere thought of Sherlock stop bowling him over, knocking the breath from his lungs? He can hear a violin in the distance and his throat closes up as he remembers Sherlock on the violin.
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
He's curled up on the bed. It still smells like Sherlock, even after a year of no Sherlock. The pain is still there, in his chest, but it's duller now, or he's gotten used to it. John doubts he'll ever truly heal. Moonlight streams through the window, lighting up the desk and the gun resting on top of it. He'd found it this morning, resting amongst his socks and underwear. I would be so easy now, to grab it and pull the trigger. He can hear the Sherlock in his mind yelling at his idiocy. John cries into the pillow.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
He still gets mail, emails and letters sent to him. People telling him they still believe in Sherlock Holmes, that Moriarty was real. They also tell him to die and that Sherlock deserved what he got. John burns them all without care for which is which. They are like cold stars in the sky and he cares not for the light they shine, be it good or bad. Sherlock is dead and no amount of believing will ever bring him back. The fire burns brightly with each letter added, a mockingly cheerful blaze that gives him no warmth or hope.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
By the end of the second year, it's gotten easier. He spends a month packing things away. It takes so long because each time he picks something up, a memory comes with it and John is left trying to keep from falling apart. Eventually though, it is all gone, stored in Sherlock's old room. He can't rid himself of them just yet, but he doesn't need to look at them always now. Only two things remain out: Sherlock's violin, still resting beside the chair and the skull. He's got to have someone to talk to when things get too quiet.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
People still visit. Mrs. Hudson checks up on him every day in the morning and the evening. Lestrade swings by sometimes after work to see how he's doing, ask him out for a pint, watch the latest match. Mycroft comes once a month at the exact same time on the exact same day. They spend his visit in silence and mounting angry tension. He helps out Sherlock's homeless network when he can. Sherlock would have appreciated that. But despite all the people who come, he never gets a new friend. No one could fill the Sherlock-shaped hole in his chest.
For nothing now can ever come to any good./i
The cemetery's quiet. John doesn't have flowers, has never brought them since the first time, the day they buried Sherlock. The plot's well-kept and the marker shines in the cheerful sunlight. It's a mockery of the date, of the feelings coursing through him at the moment. He doesn't say anything, just stands silent for a few minutes before walking away. The cabbie doesn't say a word as John mumbles his address to him. The ride is a blur of John lost in thought. He pays the man and limps towards the door. It is ajar and inside, a violin plays.
End Notes:
Funeral Blues- W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.