Summary: Two years of utter loneliness had effusively shown that the great Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat, was not capable of love. How pleased daddy must be. Post Fall. Non-reunion fic.
Title: Too Late
Warnings: Angst. Sadness and lost hearts.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: T
I would wish you happy reading, but I don't think that will happen. Thanks to Howlynn for giving me loads of advice!
…
Chapter 1
"No, Sherlock, I am not coming back. Not ever. Do you hear me? Never." John stands in the doorway to his small Cardiff flat, his hands on his hips, his eyes fiercely warning his former friend not to keep repeating his request.
John has such a mild and agreeable character, that his dangerous side, easily overlooked, grows even more powerful when he finally wants his orders to be followed. It is so easy to forget that he had been in command of a platoon to lead them through a warzone. Agreed, John is also a doctor who saves lives and seems to have eternal patience, but when John finally loses that patience and firmly states that he wants to be obeyed, all softness and kindness is replaced by inextinguishable fire.
The man his ire is aimed to has his hands buried deep in the pockets of his long black coat and stares with blank expression at his expensive Italian shoes.
Every word John speaks lands on Sherlock as the crack of a whip. Sherlock thinks he would have preferred the whip. It would be better to have his skin cut by unforgiving leather than to know his future will be hell.
No doctor intents to be cruel to a patient when amputating a limb, but that does not mean the empty cavity in his chest aches less. Lack of cruel intent doesn't help. His mind is numb, only one thought keeps surfacing over and over again.
Rain, not solid or heavy but persistent, soaks the few pedestrians who dare defy its warning of sorrow in the streets. It makes the night full of metaphors. Do angels actually cry when one has fallen? Is John right to wash his hands of him?
Sherlock knows he can't allow letting John slip away from his hands so easily. He lifts his head, meeting John's eyes, pleading him wordlessly to see clearly just for one last time. He allows the floods of feelings to well up, and let John see the truth. He used to be the one person who could see the good in him, who could see the fragile human heart he had.
He doesn't move a limb, his frame stays frozen, but he holds John's gaze trying to move heaven with his eyes. "John, I-" will do anything you ask from me.
John doesn't allow him to finish. "I said no, Sherlock. No. There is nothing left to talk about. You need to go."
For a moment, desperation disregards logic. Sherlock takes a step toward John, ignoring the danger in John's eyes. "Please." It slips past his lips like a prayer.
"Leave me be," John says in a calm, low voice but the unspoken threat is clear and bright in his eyes. "I don't want this to end with one of us in the hospital."
John reaches for the door handle, but the image of his broken friend bleeding on the pavement makes him hesitate in his movement. It still makes him shiver with fear, but the realisation that Sherlock stood by when he broke and begged for his return, hardens his heart to him now.
The image of the man, whether he is standing on his door step or lying on the blood-soaked pavement, will never leave his retina.
He closes the door and locks him out. He takes a deep breath as he looks through the peep-hole, unable to breathe out.
He looks at the surreal image of Sherlock standing with huge, horror-filled eyes. His shoulders lower and it seems like a lifetime before the detective shuffles away as if he has lost his ethereal grace.
Inside the poorly decorated flat John leans against the door. His knees give way. He hits the ground hard, his back slamming into the door hard enough to cause bruises. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms tightly around them. He waits until he can't hear the dragging footsteps outside any more and when the eerie silence has returned, he bows his head. Sobs escape his throat; with difficulty he holds the whimpers back. In the protection of his own flat John doesn't have to fool anybody.
Sherlock Holmes is alive, but never had he been more dead to John than now. It hurts, but John knows he has made the right decision. He would never have to be hurt like this ever again.
Sherlock is like a hurricane; destroying everything he encounters in his path.
Sherlock is like the sun; you come too close and you'll burn.
Sherlock is like the sea: invitingly refreshing, but its treacherous, down-pulling undercurrents are pulling constantly.
If Sherlock was all those things to the people around him, how would he be to himself? John plays the scene again, watches on like an outsider. Sees the holding of his frame, sees the pleading, but finds himself unable to think of it as being his fault. He knows he should feel it is his fault.
Sherlock never gives up that easily. Surely he must have deduced something John doesn't know about himself yet?
John almost expects Sherlock to knock on the door and demand entrance, pouring out his deductions, persuading John to come home with him and stop acting like such an idiot. He would have succeeded.
But Sherlock is really gone now, and he doesn't return. Why should he?
In the silence of his own flat, thoughts attack John's bewildered mind from all sides. He has always been Sherlock's beacon, Sherlock's rock. Who would be Sherlock's rock now? Would tonight be a danger night? Would every night be a danger night? Who would mess up Sherlock's sock index to get rid of all the drugs there?
To be honest, it is rather stupid. Sherlock has been on his own for over two years. If he wanted to do drugs, he would have done it. Just returning to John doesn't mean he should take care of Sherlock.
Does it?
Less than three years ago, John had been willing to dedicate his life fully to Sherlock, willing to put everything aside for him. John doesn't understand why that had changed. Is he really that fallible? Was being changeable his weakness too?
It seems surreal. Sherlock has performed a miracle. One last miracle, but was it for him? John shakes his head to the emptiness of his flat. Sherlock was not dead. Sherlock is alive. And John doesn't know whether to laugh, or cry. But because the skies are already crying, John does the only thing that is left for him to do. He chuckles. Sherlock is alive.
…
In the rain outside, Sherlock slowly walks back the way he came, leaving his friend and his past behind. Sherlock knows he deserves this. It has been seven weeks since he had 'returned from the dead', a phrase his brother Mycroft is fond of using. It is a phrase too dramatic for Sherlock's taste. He has not returned from the dead; John has not allowed him to be part of the living again. He has handed his heart over to John, who threw it away in the bin on top of crumpled and smeared case-files and left-over dinner, to be covered by left-over breakfast. He is still dead, and now it is permanent.
He had shown himself to John, Lestrade, Molly and everyone else the first moment he safely could. The press had turned again – they always did – and had welcomed the not-dead detective with open arms and enthusiastic articles. Sherlock's records had been cleared by Lestrade and Mycroft, and the 'Believe-In-Sherlock'-graffiti-movement had taken on the fashionable cult of public opinion, handing him a fan base prior to his return.
He was re-established in his former glory. He has more cases than ever, but Baker Street is not the same without the tea-drinking blogger.
Silently, pale, matter-of-factly, John had understood. Sherlock could easily remember how his best – only– friend had looked: shivering, thin and pale, black bags under his eyes and a stronger limp than ever in his right leg.
John had understood. But he doesn't understand now. Or perhaps he does, and is he just playing the game how Moriarty wanted him to. The consulting spider must have convinced John to play. This might very well be the real fall. The real burning.
How pleased daddy must be.