This is a story I have on AO3, but I thought I'd broaden my horizons…or whatever. Either way, enjoy!
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It's when she receives a call from Sherlock she knows something's wrong, he never calls her, he texts, and only texts. The first day they met he claimed so, and that statement proved to be true after she found she'd never once come to hear his voice on the other line. But he had called, she had left her cabby, looking up with wide eyes and a desperation that this was just one of her other nightmares.
He was up terribly high, the sun kissing his cheeks, but it appeared to dim when he proposed that he was a liar, that he had made this all up, all of it for attention. A scandal for the ages and she felt her heart drop, because that wasn't true, that wasn't him. He was brilliant and kept his mind and heart away from the word fraud. It wasn't in his vocabulary.
June gawked as his tall figure, seemingly shrinking on that six story building, an inconsolable gleam up turned his lips, a lewd laugh echoing into her ears on her side of the story. June tried to move, tried to get to him, a fire burning beside her bright, the heat melting her very core.
She murmurs his name, goes to leave her spot, she plans to retrieve him from the top of that building, hold him in her arms and breathe him in, keep him close, never let go. Squeeze him tight because he was being stupid, an idiot, a miraculous idiot who never once failed her. No one stand's on the edge of a building such as this without a horrendous ideal.
She feels a halt stiffen her heels, his arm lunging out as if to put her on pause and she waits, listening to his order to back up. She doesn't know why she does, every part of her is screaming, every part of her is sobbing, detesting the horrific scene in sight. His lovely baritone concludes that this is his note, because that's what people do and for her to keep her eyes on him.
He sounds…scared, of all things, worried and scared. But of what? She doesn't have time to ask him these useless by gone questions because he's already flying, but this flying is different, this flying leads to a more permanent destination. A destruction that would wreak havoc on her frail little heart.
She can almost hear the sound of his body colliding with the cement, a brutal truth that strings through her bones and ties her up with the consistency of dwindling dismal. It feels as if the whole world around her goes dark, all the color shades grey and black, exiting her system with a twist in her gut.
The outside noise all but nothing, just the sound of mushed in melodies, playing deafening silent and nothing seems to matter except the fact that she needs to move. Everything, the gusts of wind, cars, the people, they're all so slow. She's slow, her pace plodding, unmoving yet she feels her legs breaking with snapped movements.
The crack that humbled her hip is hardly notable until she lands with the dexterity of brick, her cheek coming to a harsh point mixture with the ground. She groans, feeling around herself, the man that had ran into her apologizing and trying to help her up. She shrugs him off, refusing any of his forgivable traits.
She likes the push, it wakes her up to a strident reality, the fall speeding her up, pushing through the people that had surrounded him, cops and doctors alike, some civilian. She's trying, she really is, and all she catches a glimpse of is his scarf, the cobalt speaking volumes the world around her couldn't, that she couldn't.
She's shoving now and a pair of arms wrap around her, telling her this was something she should avoid, she growls and pushes the unknown man off. "Let me through, he's my friend." She's reaching out and to the rest she must seem crazy, her eyes a spiral and her hair already turned a mess.
"I'm a doctor." Some part at the point, like the red sea and she's next to him in a moments notice, her shaky fingers sliding to his wrist with a traitorous amount of concern. Desperately she searches for any sign of life, any beating of his heart all the while ignoring the vigorous amount of blood that is drowning the cement in a musk.
He wasn't dead, there was no possible way he was, Sherlock was smart. He'd have figured out someway to survive, if not for himself than for her, right? He'd never leave her alone, not after everything they'd been through? She was his friend and he hers. Best friends.
She knew how he liked his tea, three sugars and a dap of honey. She knew that he played a horrendous tune on his violin just to peeve his brother into leaving, he loved Chinese food, it was the only food she could manage to sneak past him when he was on a case, when speaking she'd just feed it to him.
Despite what many thought he could be a warming man, she found he liked romance novels, of all things and he enjoyed snuggling. He hated, despised, when he couldn't get things right, couldn't get a definite answer. He hated it when she ignored him, and despised it when she was hurt. As she learned more she realized she knew him better than his own brother.
They were best friends.
He wouldn't leave her like this. Not like this. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just drop, he wouldn't plunge himself into a foreboding darkness just because he felt destroyed, no, he'd try to fix it. And this wasn't fixing it. Unless…for him it was…it was a truth that led to a bleak future.
She doesn't realize she's feeling for his neck now, fingers cold as she yanks his scarf down, the warmth still there, hazy but there. Her vision grows blurry as the sting settled behind her hazel hues, acidic tears clamping onto her cheeks and clinging to her neck she leans down, nails biting into his coat.
She holds him the best she can, tries to warm him, the once settle frigid frost now nipping, the gelid atmosphere turning blue. He's still warm, but there's no persisting beat that keeps her hope in line, that keeps her chin up high and shoulders pulled back. It feels as if her heart is coming to stop with his as time freezes over and she doesn't know how long she's there for.
But she's sure it's a time that should be considered abnormal, clinging to a now dead body for a comfort that would never return, a despotic twist of imagery as she refuses to acknowledge him as gone. A warm sense creeps about her arms, pulling her back and she's reaching for Sherlock. She wasn't ready, they couldn't just take him, he couldn't just leave her alone. June couldn't be alone. Not again.
The man holding her close speaks, and she recognizes his voice and finds herself holding him, because oh god, she's flying with Sherlock, except her destination wasn't anywhere in sight. "It's alright, c'mere." Lestrade pulls her up, holding her with a strength she had never took notice to, leaving behind the crimson that painted the world now.
She looks back at Sherlock one last time, she had too, to confirm everything that had just laid waste to her and she finds it's not alright. It wasn't alright, it was an austere punishment the world had forced upon her! She's choking out sobs now, her cheeks are itchy and she wants to push Lestrade away, but she doesn't, not certain if she'd be able to walk on her own.
She catches small glimpses of Donovan and Anderson, and she wishes she could be angry, be vile and tear them a new one, because she wants to blame someone that isn't herself. They're the ones at fault, the ones that pushed him to his death, she wants to believe that…but her breathing becomes something of a game and she ignores they're presence and just lets the world drown her in caustic waves, taking away from her what once was hers.
She's breathing, but it isn't oxygen that enters her lungs, its grating draconian and it's drowning her in waves of inconsolable fire.
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June wasn't sure if she was ready to see his grave, ready to see his name engraved into the black slab of stone, him buried six feet under. But when she and Ms. Hudson came to a stop in front of the stone, where he had been lowered beneath the earth she didn't feel anything. Nothing strong enough to strike her out as normal and she felt as if she were inhuman.
Just like she had at her father's grave, a passing emotion that never really pushed her to cry out in the overgrown pain that's supposed to swell and eat you alive. And a part of her was grateful she couldn't feel the heart spitting agony, it saved her the trouble of feeling at lost.
The other part, the side that strung about her limbs and tightly coiled her in, that part wanted to feel the pain, to survive it, to know she's still awake, alive and feeling everything around her with a vivid heart. A vivid torment, stark, lurid and raucous; something that kept her awake nights on end.
Ms. Hudson, reminding June of her existence, licked her lips, breaking the silence. "He was such a messy man, abrupt and terrible with others." She smiles sadly, taking Junes hand and squeezing it. "I'm going to miss him." She says, and it's farther from this world than June is and she realizes this must be hitting her hard as well, like June had forgotten Sherlock meant something to others.
Like a train cricketing into that bad hip of hers. Ms. Hudson was more of a motherly figure to Sherlock, June found, the longer she stayed there in 221b. She'd hear Ms. Hudson come in late at night, ask Sherlock to go to bed so as to not worry her or her 'dear June.' He usually never listened, until one night it was silent and soft little trembles shook June, Ms. Hudson had begun to cry in front of him and he obliged, sending himself off to bed so she'd sleep soundly. That was when she found Sherlock cared for her, much more than June had initially thought. Ms. Hudson gives her one last squeeze and leaves her side, the void filling where she once stood and June sturdies herself into the ground.
This is why she didn't exactly like getting close to others, she liked people, don't get her wrong…she just…the pain that came with it was more than enough to drive her off. After her father died, that little nine year old girl decided she didn't like depending on people, because people leave. At the end of the day all you have is yourself and that has to be enough.
For a time she thought the world would play fair with her, she thought she'd actually get to keep this life of hers, keep him by her side and the thrill that came with it, that this was enough, that the world around her was finally giving her a break. But you can't expect the world to be fair with you because you are fair, that's like expecting a lion not to attack you because you hadn't attack it.
Why can't things that are good just stay?
It was an eager question, one she had prodded before but got nothing from. And she's prodding it again, because looking at his stone; it makes her feel empty and placid. Something that doesn't fit. A puzzle she can't solve, one she doesn't click into because he's gone.
She decides, that eventually she should say something, she was sure that was why Ms. Hudson left her to her own devices. To give June some privacy. She always thought it weird to speak with the dead, like they can hear, but this time, this one time she would.
Because maybe he would, maybe it would put him at rest as it would her. She needed some sort of peace to bring her down from her flight.
With urgency she opens her mouth, expecting words to come out but nothing does, she's at a loss. Her vocals tumble within her throat, her tongue barricading any sound that could have entered the world. She breathes deeply, thinking it over, deciding that'd she'd just go with whatever leaves her mouth.
"You told me once you weren't a hero." Her voice shakes and she has to hold her breath to keep track. "There were times I didn't even think you were human." She thinks back to all his cases, how he moved around the situation with the dexterity of an acrobat, smooth and dangerous. His mind working like a high vaulted computer system, quick and never stopping unless unplugged.
She folds her arms, shuffling her feet into the grass, the dirt kicking up along with the dead leaves, a crunching slapping the air with a swift snap. "But let me tell you this, you were the best man. The most human, human being that I've ever known." Her voice steady now, sure of what she had said, because it was true. "No one will ever convince you that you told a lie…so there." She stiffens, shoulders back and chin high in gratitude.
She felt as if she should leave it at that, but as she moved forward her heart trembled and the words began to fall off the tip of her tongue with a longing she hadn't felt since her younger days. "I was so alone and I owe you so much. Maybe everything." She cracks at this, her once stiff and high standpoint now faltering into a shattering resemblance of the scar on her left shoulder. A scar that would stay and never leave, no matter how many people came and tried to clean it up.
"Just one more thing…just one more thing you can do for me?" A hot molten hides behind her eyes and she closes them tight, fingers digging into her folded arms. "One more possible miracle, one more brilliant miracle…" she kneels down, pressing her forehead against his headstone. "Don't be dead." She shatters, a million little pieces falling to the floor, believing the beautiful lie she had just spoke aloud.
He wouldn't come back.
But that didn't stop her from continuing, from speaking her mind as she forced the tears threatening to break out to stay put. "Would you do that just for me?" Arms wrapped tightly and she's hugging herself, trying to find comfort in herself, because at the end of the day all you have is yourself, and it has to be enough.
She wants to open her eyes, to look at his name in the face and scorn him for leaving her, but this was enough, it had to be. But deep down she knew it wasn't, it never would be, she was left an empty vessel on some highway, never leaving to find her gas. She was empty, but it was enough, it had to be and it would.
She breaks her eyes open, her heart suddenly turning into a coil of barbed wire, a gut twisting despondence that never left and all that fire that she held back was now dripping from her cheeks and landing where he lied beneath her.
All she can think about is him, the quirk of his lips when they found a new game to play, that anger that never subsided when he heard his name, a name that would never let June rest, one that had ruined Sherlock. She thinks back to him, because that man, he had succeeded, he had burnt the heart out of Sherlock.
Skinned him and hung him high for all to see, made him a fraud in the eyes of the viewers. She wants to be angry, she can feel the ire building up in her sternum but she puts it at ease, because right now she just wants to focus on those unbelievably iridescent hues humbled with cerulean around the middle, somehow managing to be a different shade every other minute.
The raven like curls that swept across his head, thick and easily the softest strands she'd ever come by. And the translucent skin that seemed to glow in the sun, impeached with an uncertain amount of vitamin D. She always thought he needed more sun. His resonate timbre holding onto her, keeping her close yet so distant and her heart swells just at the thought of him speaking.
A vicious dive in a spilling yearning held her back, her arms suddenly grew numb and her abdomen kept a tight string wrapped, a knot slick and trying. And the words she's known, that she's repeated in her head, that have been written out on her chest, her arms so openly come pouring out before she can hold them back.
She had kept them inside for so long, wrapped in tyrannical chains, keeping them on the inside because that's the safest place to hide, but he's not here and she has nothing to fear. "I love you…" she's almost mad she had admit it, to his grave of all things and she can feel herself screaming on the inside, clenching for the reality that she had just let herself go.
The last part she had laid her strength in, she torn it apart herself. She, June Watson, had just told a dead man she loved him. Of course she did, she was a fault and so was her love. Everything about her was a mess, a mess that he had easily picked up and carried around in that large coat of his and kept bundled in his scarf when wrapped.
All her weaknesses had become his strengths and all his strengths had become her weakness. It was almost like they were oil and water, almost. Because she only floated when she felt a loss in care, when she couldn't push forward with a proud smile. When she felt as if he were a man with no care in the world, when he didn't take care of himself, refused to acknowledge that sometimes he breaks.
But that was sometimes. Other times, they laughed and joked, witty in comparison. She sighs, standing up from the grave, she rubs her arms in an attempt to warm herself. "Come back to me, alright? Just…I love you, so come back to me." She sucks in a breath, an attempt to hold back a sob that retells in her throat.
Deep within her chest she can feel herself slowly falling apart but ignores it, the distance between now and the pain that would cave her in was nothing compared to how solitary she felt currently.
Wiping her cheeks of their itchy water she turned on her heel and led herself back to Ms. Hudson, giving her a great hug. "We should get going." Ms. Hudson nods, both leaving the cemetery to find a taxi.
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Sherlock gawks at the two women leaving, trying to produce a sound reaction, he was stiff but nowhere near as numb like he had planned on being. During this entire time, he held in the determination he was doing this to protect her, to protect all of them. He had left, he had died because he needed to deal with a system that Moriarty had created, a system made to kill others, such as June, Lestrade and Ms. Hudson.
And he'd be damned if that happened. So he had set off, ready to risk everything just for them, though secretly, all down below of what was an emotionless barrier, of what he thought was alone, was where June Watson had made a home.
A time ago he had ruled out his heart in a matter of life, keeping it far from his brain, his thoughts, because it tempted him to make disastrous decisions that made no sense, logically speaking he chose the right path in avoiding all sense in what one would call the affairs of the heart.
But June Watson…He looks back at it all and finds he's done this all for her. All for the woman who had accepted him as such, and as he realizes this her words are put on replay, echoing through his palace and he wishes he could just block it out. But he can't and decides he won't because June, as she had said, loved him.
He didn't know whether he wanted to keep that at heart or remove it completely. He stares at the flowers she had placed on his grave, the orchids stemmed above, closing in on his name, high and proud but somehow represented a sorrow that could only match his esteemed doctor, soldier and highly held blogger.
He had to keep himself grounded when he saw her presented tears, had to hold back the urge to lunge forward and risk a beating just to assure her everything was alright. He could see it now, the knit of her brow, the snarl on her lower lip and he was positive she'd hit him.
Maybe his cheek, no, she would only aim for his cheek, because if she loved him she'd avoid his nose and teeth. Irene had been right, he accounts and shoves his hands into the pits of his coat pockets. He breathes deeply, soaking in the drastic enveloped melancholy that drenched the area around him.
It smelt of rain and freshly cut grass, but it was thick and heavy with the imagery that'd after she'd be done hitting him she'd embrace him, hold him tightly and never let go, and he'd bring her in with a loving care that he was sure that he was incapable of for years. If she loved him, she'd understand why he did this, so it was here he had convinced himself that when he came back to her she'd hold him to the ends of the earth.
Thrilled and joyous to see him alive and well, cry into his shoulder and scold him for doing what he had done but still, never let him go. He turns on his heel because the thought of all this overwhelms him and he needs to get this over with.
He needs to break what red strings of hate were still left in the debris of James Moriarty. The quicker done, efficient and complete the faster he'd be able to see June Watson, be able to see his generous doctor, brave soldier and fantastic blogger. He would do this all to see her smile again, to see her grow into a state of thrilling ecstatic jumps when they were in the midst of the game, see her bring him in with the graceful concern and care he thought impossible.
It was all for his golden doctor.