This is very unlike anything I've ever written before. This story contains very much angst. The story is rated M. Character death.
My friend, Kine, who's very frail, really shouldn't be reading this.
It was the silence that caused him the most pain. The silence was what made his chest ache and burn as if the air around them was too heavy to breathe. He never thought he would become that man, but sometimes he wished she would just hit him…yell, scream, choke him, anything other than what she was doing now. The silence was more violent than any physical punishment she could heft upon him. At least that way he'd know she felt something, but this…it felt like he was invisible to her. He was some spectrum of light beyond her scope of vision. She was numb, and he was inconsequential.
But then again, had he ever mattered to anyone?
He'd like to think that he had, but he knew in his heart that he hadn't. Few people would spare him a second glance. He was just someone in the crowd. People took him for granted. He was unimportant. He knew that much.
There was a stabbing pain in his heart whenever he was around. He felt as if his heart was literally breaking. It had been breaking for the last five years. Every fucking day. And no one even knew, because no one ever noticed him.
Mary didn't care anymore, if she ever had. Why had she married him at all? The only thing he saw when he looked into her eyes was resentment. Was he that much of a burden to her? Was that how everyone saw him? There was no place for him anymore.
There was nothing left of John Watson.
He could vaguely remember a time when they were happy. Their honeymoon and the days that followed. She had looked at him like he was the best thing to ever happen to her. Now he wasn't even a blip on her radar. It was like he didn't exist
For a couple of months he had actually believed that he had a future with her, and that the gaping hole in his heart could be mended. But how could it? How could it be mended when the very cause of it was still a part of his daily life?
Was that the reason Mary now looked at him with contempt instead of love? Had she finally realized that his heart never truly had belonged to her?
'Don't flatter yourself, Watson, you're not that big of a deal, who would want you in the first place? Your wife can't even stand you, and Sherlock will never love you back, who are you kidding?'
Maybe she had never loved him at all. Or maybe it was the miscarriage. That day had changed everything.
They had been distraught. Mary had been 14 weeks along, and everything seemed to be running smoothly. There was light in their lives again, and John had been excited to become a father. Life had purpose again. His life hadn't had purpose in so long, not since... not since he'd been living with Sherlock. That was the last time he'd felt needed or wanted.
These days, his visits to 221B were the only thing that would cheer him up. But it came with a price. He would be reminded once again that the only person he'd ever truly loved didn't want him. He'd known that all along, but it still hurt. The fact that he'd ever dreamed that Sherlock would love him back was beyond him. Sherlock didn't love anybody, and if he did, it definitely wouldn't be him. Why would it? He was pathetic. A short, broken man with a limp? What a catch!
His own bloody wife didn't even want him. And ever since the miscarriage it had been worse than ever. Mary had found blood in her urine, they had gone to the doctor, she miscarried, they went home. His purpose was gone, just like that. So was the last bit of affection Mary held for him. Whatever he did from that moment on, it was never enough. She was never angry with him, she just didn't care anymore.
How could losing something he never had make him feel so numb? The child in Mary's belly had simply been a fetus when it happened. So why did he feel like he had lost a piece of himself? He never imagined it would hurt this bad.
Finally, one day everything snapped.
He had come home early after a day at the clinic. He stopped dead the minute he had walked inside. Mary was on the couch, but she wasn't alone. There was a man there with her. He was groping her. And she was letting him.. oh.
John just stood there, unable to look away until finally…the single, fragile, thread that had been holding the broken pieces of him together snapped. Suddenly he knew…he couldn't do it anymore. For the first time in two years, John Watson straightened his back and held his head high.
He went outside again before they could notice him.
He walked for hours. He had no idea where he was, and he didn't care, just enjoyed the cool breeze caressing his cheeks. He walked by the Thames, through parks, through crowded streets. Nobody paid him any attention, and he was glad for it. Maybe he was better off alone. He had walked for several hours when he walked by a familiar building. His old home. He smiled at the building. He'd had his best moments here.
"John?"
John turned around to see Sherlock walking towards him, having just gotten out of a taxi.
"Hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled at him as if he had just come back from a long vacation. His brow furrowed however when he looked the doctor over. John looked...broken. He'd lost a lot of weight, and his cream colored jumper hung loosely around him. He was depressed.
Instead of making an enquiry out here he simply said: "Tea?"
"I...ok, why not?" John said.
Once inside John sat down in his old chair, as Sherlock prepared the tea.
John fiddled with his jumper. This was a fucking mistake. He really shouldn't be here. He didn't understand why he'd agreed to this, but he'd never been able to deny Sherlock anything. Except cigarettes.
He felt numb. Being here only reminded him of everything he had lost, and everything that could've been. And everything he could never have. Even worse, the thing he couldn't have was in the fucking kitchen boiling water. Wasn't it simply ridiculous? Just like his life.
John sprang to his feet. He had to leave. Sherlock couldn't see him falling apart.
"Sherlock, I...I'll skip the tea, gotta be somewhere!" he shouted in a surprisingly steady voice, before running for the door.
"But..." he heard Sherlock begin, before he closed the door behind him.
He was halfway down the stairs when he turned around and ran back upstairs. He found Sherlock leaning heavily on the table in the kitchen and did something he had wanted to do for the last five years. He grabbed him by the collar and kissed him roughly, purposefully. Sherlock was startled at first, but quickly began to follow his lead. The detective easily hoisted him into his arms and wrapped John's legs around his waist. By the time they reached the bedroom, John's head was spinning.
Sherlock rid them of their clothes in record time. And before he could register what happened Sherlock's mouth was around is cock, licking and sucking and breathing. At the same time two slick fingers found their way inside him. It had been so long since he'd been touched like that. His legs clamped around Sherlock's head and there were so many sensations assaulting him that his climax hit him hard and fast.
He didn't even have a chance to come down before Sherlock was pulling out his own cock, sliding inside him slowly…and it was all pain and pleasure. He gasped, and his back arched so fast he nearly bucked them both off the bed. Sherlock slowed his movements. He knew what had been going on with John and Mary (John was an open book to him sometimes) and he wanted to show him that he was still desirable. He didn't want to fuck him, like he meant nothing; he wanted to make love to him…to show him that he was loved. He looked John directly in the eyes and what stared back at him was enough to make him cry. As his tears mingled with his, he knew he had to make every second count…because somehow, he knew they wouldn't be seeing each other for a long time.
He showered kisses across every inch of John's skin he could reach. He touched him in ways he hadn't been touched in years. His body was crying out for him and he was more than willing to answer the call. John's second orgasm was fast approaching and he moaned out Sherlock's name over and over again. His own climax followed seconds after John's and he clamped his legs around him before he could pull out. John begged him not to move because he knew the emptiness would return the second he wasn't inside him, so he carefully rolled them over without breaking their connection. He looked down to see that John had fallen asleep.
Sherlock laid down beside him, and caressed his cheek. He then brought his mouth to his ear, and nuzzled close. He felt the tears that were threatening to spill from his eyes. He couldn't stand seeing John like this. Broken.
"I love you, I just wish I had the courage to say it to your face" he whispered to John's sleeping form "but I am a coward who's too afraid of rejection, and I'm sorry if my actions have caused you to think you're nothing. You're everything. And one day, I'll be brave enough to tell you that."
When John awoke on Sherlock's chest a few hours later, he was sweaty, sticky and blissfully sore. Sherlock was sleeping for once, and he traced the detective's face lightly with his fingers, dedicating every feature to memory. He breathed the scent of him in, kissed his lips lightly, then whispered 'I love you' in his ear. He quietly got dressed and wrote Sherlock a letter that he left on the bedside table, where he knew Sherlock would find it. He looked back at him one more time before leaving. This was for the best.
He ran into Mrs. Hudson on the way down, and she stopped him. She gave him a warm hug and told him it was nice to see him smiling again. He thanked her and bid her goodnight. When he got out of the building he broke into a run. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, feeling the wind in his hair and the last streams of sunlight from a day that was ending. He felt free for the first time since he'd married Mary. Finally, he felt like he could breathe. He continued running as if he didn't have a single care in the world, and managed to make it home in record time.
Mary was out with friends. Perfect.
He carelessly tossed his keys on the floor, and didn't even bother to lock the front door after he entered the house. He made a stop in the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of wine and a glass, before heading upstairs to the bathroom. He started a bath, and poured in bath salts, bubbles, and oils. Setting the wine bottle and the glass down beside the tub, he stripped off his clothes and eased into the steaming hot pool. He quickly started to relax and decided to make a few phone calls while soaking and sipping his wine.
First he talked to his mother, and she was a little alarmed that he would call her at such an hour. He assured her that he just wanted to hear her voice because he'd had a rough day. He ended it by telling her that he loved her. He called Harry, but she didn't pick up, so he left her a voicemail. Then he called Molly. Molly, after having moved away a couple of years ago, was very excited to hear from him, and they talked for about an hour. Molly sensed that something was wrong, but didn't comment on it, because for the first time in a year John didn't sound defeated. They ended their conversation with lots of love and a promise to see each other soon... which John failed to respond to. It didn't click for Molly until after John had hung up. She immediately called Sherlock, and prayed that he would get there in time.
John's last call was to Mary. She didn't pick up. She had stopped taking his calls a long time ago. He said what he needed to say to her voicemail. He added more hot water to his now tepid bath as he finished the last of his wine. He was more than a little buzzed as he reached out to grab his straight razor from the edge of the sink. He turned it over in his hands, watched the light glint off of the shiny surface. He opened and closed it a few times, listened to the ting of metal against metal as warm waves sloshed against his skin. He sat back, closed his eyes and just listened. He could hear the water sloshing around him the occasional swish of the cars whizzing by on the street below, sirens in the far distance. Maybe Sherlock was on a case tonight.
The faces of everyone he loved flashed before his eyes...every happy moment of his life played in the theater of his mind as he dragged the blade vertically up his right forearm. There was no pain. He didn't know how, but there was a face that became clearer and clearer, while at the same time he got weaker.. a beautiful man with a mop of dark curls and piercing grey eyes. As his breathing slowed, he could have sworn he heard a faint voice calling for him, beckoning for him. Then it all faded to black.
Sherlock knew something was very, very wrong the minute Molly called him in panic. She was sobbing so hard that he couldn't understand a word she was saying, but all he needed to hear was 'John'. Without even telling Molly goodbye, he closed his phone and reached for his keys…and that's when he saw it. There was a letter, written in John's perfect handwriting. He quickly read it and then raced out of the flat, nearly knocking Mrs. Hudson down on his way out. There was no time to apologize or explain. He got in a taxi and drove off, telling the cabbie to hurry.
He was prepared to break the door down and was shocked to find it unlocked. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears as he raced up the stairs two at a time…screaming John's name at the top if his lungs. He had never been in their house before, John had always come to him. He didn't know why he had been drawn upstairs, but as he saw the faint light coming from the bathroom he knew he was in the right place. He charged into the room and as he crossed the threshold of the bath, the sight before him buckled his knees.
No...no...no...it couldn't be. John.
Someone was sobbing hysterically and it took him a moment to realize it was him. He knew it was too late, he knew…but he pulled John's lifeless body from the water and started CPR anyway. He called for an ambulance. It was too late. He was blue; he had no pulse, no breath. He cradled his limp form in his arms, brushed his beautiful sandy locks from his forehead, let his fingertips trace his lips and eyes…dedicating his features to memory.
He kissed him softly, hoping to feel the warmth he'd felt earlier, but he was icy cold. Lifeless and cold. He held him tighter, wrapped his arms around him and chanted his name as if he could will him back to life. He was so focused on John that he never heard the footsteps approaching. He didn't realize anyone else was there until Mary noisily dropped her mobile phone and keys at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, still wearing his impeccable suit, covered in blood and cradling her husband's limp, naked body. She saw Sherlock stiffen—she could see the rage radiating from the detective's eyes.
"Seems like you've gotten your wish" he spat, tears cascading down his pale cheeks "He is dead, you've gotten what you worked for all these years."
Mary feels cold. Her knees buckle as she looks at John's motionless features. She takes several minutes to answer.
"I loved him, you know." she whispered in a shaky voice "I really did."
"Who are you kidding?! He felt like he didn't matter to you, which made him think he didn't matter to anyone! He's dead because of you!" Sherlock's voice cracked at the end.
Mary stands there, shocked. Shocked at the trueness of his words, but also shocked at this man's complete idiocy. Hasn't he realized? Didn't de know his feelings were always reciprocated?
She lets out a hysterical laughter.
"So that you're able to deduce? Did you also deduce that my husband was in love with you? Did you deduce that you're part of the reason he was unhappy? He loved you, Sherlock, and he was convinced you didn't love him back, so don't go blaming all of this on me! Because you're just as much to blame. Did you have a fun time, earlier tonight? Fucking my husband? Taking advantage of the fact that he was down?"
"How...I...I love him." Sherlock choked, burying his face in John's neck, and shaking uncontrollably.
"I know you do, so did I. If you'd just told him, he would've been happy today, but you were always too much of a coward, which left him with me. Look what it did to him. You and I, we are poison, and this is proof of it" she whispered with venom in her voice.
With that she left the room on unsteady legs, leaving Sherlock Holmes alone with the limp body of the man he loved.
Thank you for reading, and sorry for killing John.
Really , I am sorry, I love my John!