January White belongs to Sleeping At Last.
Stand alone post-Reichenbach fic
So let's press undo.
Rearrange the old and call it new-
January white.
Sherlock wished he could undo everything. Undo 'The Fall', undo breaking John's heart over and over again, undo everything. He tried, god did he try to delete everything, but it stuck and wouldn't go. But in the beginning of January, in one of the largest snowstorms London had ever seen, John lightly touched his hand and forgave him. Sherlock went into shock, and oh so gently reached for him.
"Can we start over?" John's whispered kisses told him yes.
Every calendar is playing the same old trick:
A year will disappear, replaced with counterfeit
But we'll never really mind.
The year after Sherlock returned was the worst. Constantly on their guard just in case, every month that rolled round fraught with danger, every moment Sherlock was in the public eye and dangerous time. Yet as time went, more and more of the danger seemed false, seemed fake, counterfeit. And after a while, as more years clicked past on the never ending march of time, the two men ceased worrying.
'cause if nothing else, we're given a little time
To change the game, a chance to redefine
Everything we are,
In our January white.
Moriarty had called it a game, called Sherlock's endeavour to bring him down and to protect John a game, called it a futile and scoffed at his efforts. Ultimately though, Moriarty had lost. Sherlock had won the game, had changed it to his favour. His return had redefined the boundaries and his cold view of his own mortality. As January rolled around again, it was John that taught him to understand that he didn't need the games any more. He could decide his life for himself, with John by his side, his life was everything they were, are, and could ever be.
This year is a sealed envelope,
A culmination of hopes,
The lottery result that we've been crossing fingers for.
Every January, the 1st, John would give him an envelope and seal it. In it were notes, one for every day of the year. Long and short, John gave him this envelope, all his hopes and dreams and let him read one a day for the year. The next year was the same. Each year started and ended with an envelope, some notes good and some bad, but all the essence of what they were, what they meant to one another. Sherlock hoped for a good one sometimes, he crossed his fingers and gambled with his feelings to help John. To do what John wanted and needed him to do. Hope was what carried them through each stumble, the promise of good things to come. We could paint our walls a lighter shade of blue,
Or we could pack our bags and change the entire view
To January white.
Whilst he'd been gone, Mrs Hudson and John had painted his room. It was probably for the best, who knew what was festering in the corners from long forgotten experiments. But it still hurt to return to pale blue walls with no character and no feeling, like a part of his soul had been pulled away. John fixed it, of course. He always fixed Sherlock when he needed to, without even asking. Sherlock's stuff was moved into John's room, they shared one room now. Sherlock preferred the view of London from the top floor, it was new. When winter hurried around again, the snow coated the window and all they could see was the clean and beautiful, January white.
If nothing else, we're given a little time
To change the heart in which we change our minds;
Our hourglasses turn.
Time passed, the world kept turning, seasons and months passed in a flash. Sherlock's heart gradually warmed to the idea of love and life. To the idea of John loving him and him loving John in return. It changed his mind and his entire way of life. Time no longer seemed like a constraint, it was now something to revel in. As each year drew to a close, as each fresh one began, another hourglass was turned over, ticking away their time together. Before John's love had opened his eyes, Sherlock would have protested and fought the time, but now he accepted it. He held John's hand as though it would anchor him, and let the sands of time trickle past them.
This year is a sealed envelope;
With apprehensive hope
We brace for anything.
Since 'The Fall', John had been anticipating Sherlock leaving, he'd prepared for it again. Sherlock never left. The apprehension and anxiety was still there, the terror that one day Sherlock would up and leave him again never left, and John always made a back-up plan in case it happened. Nearly every negative note in the sealed envelope was John's fear that Sherlock would once more leave, that the man would go and never return. He was always prepared. The gun was cleaned every month and loaded with the safety on in the bottom drawer. There was a substantial amount of sleeping pills secreted around the flat. Some of Sherlock's drugs were hidden in his possessions. He wouldn't live without him again if the situation presented itself.
I swear, I understand that nothing changes that,
The past will be the past,
But the future is brighter than any flashback.
John had nightmares. Sometimes of Afghanistan, mostly of Sherlock smashing into the pavement and actually dying, bleeding out in his arms. The past haunted the soldier, and that broke Sherlock's heart. On bad nights, Sherlock would hold John in his arms and rock him slightly, whispering their plans for the future, promising him that tomorrow would be better. Swearing that things would be easier. The promises of the future helped John cope with the haunting memories and constructed notions his brain created. Well, we could let our guards down a little easier this time,
We could trust that when there's joy, there's nothing dark behind.
In spite of history,
Hope is January white.
Despite the past and the nightmares, Sherlock and John learned to trust one another again, learned to open their hearts without fear of repercussions. Slowly, the fear faded, and bad days were replaced by more good days, and the good was not always immediately followed by the bad. Sherlock still felt the guilt of having done what the army hadn't managed and broken John, he always hated himself for that; but despite their past, the two learned to hope for a brighter and better future. That tomorrow would be better. With every January that passed it grew easier, the snow cleansed their dark thoughts and made the world brighter. The world was better with every January snowfall. This year, we're starting over again
Letter openers in hand,
A chance to take a chance.
John didn't stick by his own rules that year. He handed Sherlock an envelope and a small flat bladed knife to slit the top open and gave him a wry smile. When Sherlock slit it open, clouds of shredded paper spilled from the wound in the paper like the January snow that heralded the start of something new and fresh. From that paper Sherlock saw the corner of another, thicker paper. John's handwriting, left handed and shaky, but legible. Marry me?
I swear, I understand that the past will be the past,
And nothing changes that,
But the future is brighter than any flashback.
Sherlock accepted, he knew he would have anyway, or even asked John himself. They curled up on the sofa and stared at the falling flakes of snow outside the window, watching the change from snow to rain, from lovers to whatever came after. The nightmares still came, and the hatred was still there, but the future they promised one another managed to overrule all of the hurt and darkness of before.
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