A/N: Hello there! I was reluctant to end A Different Kind of Fall, and so I decided to go write a sequel based around Johnlock, so I could revisit my favorite pairing and also provide a happy ending to one of the angstiest romances ever. I went with a different sort of theme for this one, and if you followed my last story, you know that I updated daily. I have a pretty busy schedule over the next little while, so I won't make any promises, but I will try to post every other day.
The theme here is songs. It's not a song fic, in that I'm not using the lyrics mixed in with the story, but the titular song kind of drives the chapter, so if you know the song, you'll recognize elements of it in the chapter, if I've done this well. The song for this chapter is "Savin' Me" by Nickelback, and now I'll quit annoying you with my blabbing: enjoy, and do let me know what you think!
Sherlock was having a nightmare. This was not unusual. He'd been experiencing nightmares since he'd come back to London, back to Baker Street, back to John with alarming regularity, until he'd lost track of the nights when his sleep had been even more disturbed than usual. Even a genius couldn't run on no sleep at all, so he was forced to occasionally try, though he knew how it would end.
Tonight, he couldn't simply rip himself from the nightmare. He was far too tired, and anyway, this nightmare was one he was familiar enough with that he was pretty sure he could keep himself from screaming out loud when he woke. He was in his room, alone at Baker Street, and John had left after punching him. That much of the dream was true; it was a memory, and the rage and pain on John's face were burned into his mind. He frequently saw this when he closed his eyes, whether awake or asleep.
The room was suffocating him. There was no air, no light, and he reached into the darkness for the competent hands of the doctor, hands which would never touch his again. He knew that, but it didn't stop him from reaching out, crawling toward the door with tears in his eyes before the dream warped, and he found himself on the roof of St. Bart's.
The last time he'd been here in real life, he'd not been on his knees, but on his feet, and he'd been on the ledge, looking down at John. No sooner had the memory crossed his mind than he was exactly where he'd been, looking at his flat mate and so much more, though he couldn't admit it to anyone, especially said flat mate. John's expression this time, however, was not fear or shock or pain. This was not a John who would scream and mourn for him. The look on his face was cruel, a cutting smile, one that dared him to jump. No one would care, after all.
Sherlock looked skyward, searching for answers from the stars. That was strange; it was daytime in the real world when he'd done this, not night. But that was not the only strange thing. Black wings burst from his back, and he cried out from the pain as they grew from his spine, searing pain giving way to a strange sense of power as they finally stopped shredding his skin and spread for the first time. It burned, but the feeling wasn't completely uncomfortable. And he felt stronger.
"I'm coming to you this time, John. I won't leave you behind again," he murmured to the figure on the ground, even as he spread wing and dove… and kept falling, even when he tried to pull up. He panicked, then, eyes wide as he crashed hard into the ground, feeling bones snap and blood spray from thousands of gashes, as if he'd fallen through several panes of glass on the way down instead of simply crashing into pavement.
And his wings, the wings John had given him the strength to grow, were bent and twisted, broken beyond repair, feathers scattered everywhere as the fine bones and muscles, far too weak to fly without help, so soon, sent pangs of agony through his bleeding body.
John was standing above him, nudging at his abdomen with a booted foot. There was no sorrow on his face, and he wasn't pleading for Sherlock to stay with him. There was contempt in his eyes, instead, and he sneered as he looked at the fallen consulting detective.
"I tried to be more, for you, John…" Sherlock murmured, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth from a puncture in his heart caused by a broken rib. He could feel all the pain, every last bit of it, and wasn't sure how he wasn't dead. Oh, right, it's a dream. And this dream doesn't let you die until the end. Sherlock bit his lip and struggled against the blackness at the corners of his vision, even as he prepared himself for the words that would break him all over again.
"Who would want you, Sherlock? Who would want someone so broken? You can't even manage on your own. I couldn't carry you all your life. Besides, you always claimed you never needed anyone. Can you blame me if I believed you? I moved on, Sherlock. And you? You're pathetic, a shadow of the man you think you are. Pathetic." John spat on him then, and then that boot came down over his heart, and Sherlock screamed… and screamed…
And screamed as he sat bold upright in his bed, chest heaving, lungs struggling for oxygen that he sucked in greedily, noisily, trying to calm himself down.
Sherlock only slept when he knew John and Mrs. Hudson would be away; at least, those were the only times he slept in his own bed. He normally chose the hours when John was at the surgery and Mrs. Hudson was out on errands, or getting tea with Mrs. Turner. He'd contemplated wearing a gag to sleep, but had discarded the idea on the basis that it would, undoubtedly, only make the nightmares worse.
Steadying himself carefully with one shaky hand on the nightstand, then the wall, Sherlock moved purposefully through the house to the loo, so he could shower away the sweat. Maybe the water could drown out the screams still echoing in his head.
Fortunately, John only came home after he was finished with the shower and dressed, but the dream was lingering very much on the consulting detective's mind as John handed him a cup of tea and sat in his chair, picking up a book someone from the surgery—Sarah, Sherlock's mind provided, judging by the cover and quality—and beginning to read.
It wasn't that John had been extremely cold since Sherlock's return or anything, exactly. In fact, it had been several months, and they'd gotten back into something like their old routine. Except John always stood a little further away these days, wasn't as free with his praise, and was not always available to take cases.
And the women. Oh, the inane, brainless, boring women he brought home. One of the many reasons Sherlock hadn't slept at night in months was the fact that John brought home all sorts of women, and unlike Sherlock, he wasn't courteous enough to muffle the screams or confine them to the times when they would not bother the other. Judging by the low hum he was emitting this afternoon, he would be bringing one of them home with him that night.
Unable to take it any longer, Sherlock jumped to his feet, threw on his jacket and scarf, and left without another word, taking to the streets of London as he had so many times these past few months.
John stared at the place he'd vacated on the couch, letting out a sigh. He felt like Sherlock was avoiding being alone with him, even if Sherlock wasn't generally the passive aggressive type. Normally, if something bothered him, he would confront John about it, usually in the rudest way possible.
At least… it had been that way. Before… Before. John never let himself think about the Fall if he could help it, because it had marked the darkest period in his life, but now that Sherlock was back, that should have resolved itself. Instead, it felt like they were dancing around each other, and had been ever since the return.
John knew it was partially his fault. He'd punched Sherlock, when he'd first come back, but after that, they hadn't really discussed it. It was a thing, it had happened, and they'd avoided the topic like the plague. John had gone pulling far more than usual those first few weeks, wanting to avoid Sherlock while he wrapped his head around the fact that he was home. But it occurred to him now, staring at the vacated spot, that he hadn't tapered off.
Had he been making Sherlock uncomfortable, bringing women home and ignoring what had happened? He couldn't blame the consulting detective for being upset with him, really. He'd been a horrible friend lately. There were days he took extra shifts at the surgery simply because he didn't want to go to a crime scene, for fear that they would end up giggling and he would get attached again.
All John had wanted, during the years Sherlock was away, was for him to come back. He'd wanted, against all odds, to be worth returning for. But what had he done when Sherlock had pulled off the miracle he'd prayed for? He'd been acting like he didn't want him home at all, like he'd completely moved on and no longer needed the man he lived with.
Musing over this as he made himself a cuppa, John decided that he would cancel his date that night. And when Sherlock got home, assuming it wasn't too late, they would talk.
Satisfied with this line of thought, and ignoring the tinge that said he wanted to preserve their friendship because he wanted to be more than friends with his mad flat mate, John picked up the novel, a loan from Sarah, and read. He finished it after a few hours, and it was dark. Sighing, he headed up to his room, to hunt up another book and relax in a more soothing environment.
He had nodded off by the time Sherlock returned to the flat, and because there were no signs of life anywhere in the flat, he assumed he was completely alone. Perhaps, he thought wistfully, several hours of walking would have tired him out enough that his body would simply be incapable of dreaming.
Wrong.
It was the same dream, and he woke up screaming again, thankful that Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister for the next couple of weeks and that John was out on a date. Except, if John was out on a date, why were there footsteps on the stairs, and why did the doctor burst into his room, gun in hand, looking around anxiously.
"What is it, Sherlock?" He gasped, fumbling for the light switch. He found it after a few seconds, and relaxed when he didn't see anything but Sherlock, safe in his own bed. But then something gave him pause, and he scanned his flat mate again, realizing he looked… terrified.
"Did something happen?" John pressed, and Sherlock turned away, still trying to breathe. He had been avoiding this for months, but exhaustion had caught up with him, and he'd been stupid and careless as a result. Cursing himself for being stupid, and cursing John for having shown up in his moment of weakness, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to draw on the years of pretending to be a sociopath, simply because the world held too much when he let himself hope.
"No. I'm fine. Go back to your girlfriend." The words were spiked with bitter anger, and Sherlock flopped over and turned his back on John, making it clear that he very much did not want to talk. John froze in the doorway. On the one hand, it was Sherlock's right to block him out, after he'd spent so many months doing the exact same thing to him. On the other hand, this was not what he wanted them to become—strangers who shared a flat, an occupation, and nothing else—and he had wanted to talk to Sherlock that night.
"There is no girlfriend. Not tonight. I called and cancelled. I thought you might like to talk, but I must have dozed off upstairs…" John stared at the Sherlock-shaped lump that had burrowed beneath the covers, so much so that only his curls were visible. Once again ignoring the compulsion to walk over and tangle his fingers in that hair, John instead took a seat on the edge of the bed, trying not to be hurt by the way Sherlock stiffened, and then froze completely when he put his hand on his arm.
Wondering if he'd managed to somehow offend Sherlock, who tended to shy away from all physical contact unless it was with a corpse or otherwise for a case, John pulled back reluctantly, a little confused when Sherlock didn't seem to relax even a little bit after the contact finished.
"I'm sorry if I've been weird, Sherlock. Really. I want us to be friends, still." John said, biting his lip against the urge to explain that he actually wanted more. No, that was a really bad idea if he planned to get them back on track. Even Sherlock, who had really awful social skills, would be a little put off by John hitting on him when they were trying to get their equilibrium back. Hell, it would probably never be okay—he remembered what he'd said their first time at Angelo's, when he'd summarily shut him down. Sherlock had no interest in relationships. Right.
Swallowing, John rose, ignoring the part of him that was screaming to stay, to comfort Sherlock. Realizing there was nothing else he could do there that night, he headed back to his own room, deciding to try and sleep.
Sherlock lay there in the darkness, eyes closed tight, and tried to relax his suddenly tense muscles. For a moment there, he'd felt almost like he was back in the dream, and John's gentle hand had suddenly turned into something threatening. Sherlock knew how agitating he was; he'd feared that John would lose his temper after having cancelled his date to talk to Sherlock, no matter how ridiculous that fear was, and that he would strike him, as he had occasionally done in the dreams. He was now well-acquainted with pain, after having been beaten up, shot at, and sliced into many times during his time away. It was just another reason John couldn't see him vulnerable, no matter how much he wanted to be able to trust him.
He hadn't realized he was crying until he felt the wetness on his pillow when he nuzzled closer into it, trying to pretend that John's strong arms were holding him close, that everything was okay, when he was sure it wasn't. Tears continued to leak from his eyes as he prayed for an end to the darkness, prayed to be saved from the nightmares, and hoped that somehow, someday, he might feel worthy of being back, might feel worthy of John's friendship again.
He needed to hold onto the hope, no matter how farfetched that hope was. It was the only saving grace he had, when the nightmares were only a moment away.