A/N: Okay, I'm sure that this concept has been done to death (puns!) but I still have a lot of Reichenbach-related emotions and I've been listening to Lana Del Rey non-stop so I decided to write a little something inspired by her song, "Born to Die."
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters here, nor do I own "Born to Die."
Make It Feel Like Home
Feet don't fail me now
Take me to the finish line
Oh my heart it breaks every step that I take
"Sherlock!" screamed Dr. John Watson into the cold London morning.
Bile rose up in his throat and his stomach dropped as he witnessed his best friend on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital throw his mobile phone behind him.
Goodbye, John, Sherlock muttered only seconds before. His chest rose up and down in anticipation and he felt dizzy and nauseated as the chilly air whipped at his face. He took in a few heavy breaths and watched his only friend stand helplessly on the ground, staring up at him, pleading. Sherlock's face contorted and a few tears rolled down his cheeks as the reality of the situation finally hit. He had to do this, not only for John, but also for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He had to keep them safe and there was no turning back, not with Jim Moriarty lying in a pool of blood, his lifeless eyes staring ahead, his mouth fixed in a crazed grin, knowing that his fail-safe would remain a secret forever.
The great Sherlock Holmes held his arms out like a bird, his greatcoat flapping gracefully around him. Then without a moment's hesitation, he leaned forward and tumbled toward the ground.
"Sherlock," John stammered, pulling his phone away from his ear.
Time seemed to stop as he watched his friend fall from the roof, arms and legs flailing. For a moment that felt like hours, John stared ahead, open-mouthed before running to where Sherlock landed on the cold ground. He stopped in his tracks when he saw his lifeless friend, but he felt a sudden jerk as a bicyclist rammed into his side and knocked him to the ground.
A sharp pain rose up in his torso and he winced as he slowly pulled his head up. He saw a group of the hospital's doctors and nurses along with some passersby crowd around the body. Ignoring the seething pain, John pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward his best friend, whispering his name.
"I'm a doctor," he spoke with a heavy voice as a nurse tried to hold him back. "Let me come through please. He's my friend."
John held out his hand and bent down "He's my friend!" he whimpered, his voice cracking.
He ignored the blood he stepped in and the arms that tried to keep him away and reached for Sherlock's wrist, checking his pulse. He released his grip and his friend's icy hand fell limply to the sidewalk. A pair of paramedics appeared, pulling a gurney while John felt his legs buckle. The people who held him gently set him to the ground while he watched the paramedics turn Sherlock on his back.
"Oh Jesus, no," he muttered as he stared at his best friend's waxy, blood-covered face. The clear green eyes that once held so much life and excitement were now cold and dead. "God, no."
John was pulled back up to his feet and watched as Sherlock was hoisted onto the gurney and wheeled into the hospital, his eyes filled with pain. He felt a wave of nausea as the moment finally hit him. Sherlock Holmes was dead.
Don't make me sad, don't make me cry
Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough
I don't know why
Life before Sherlock had been difficult for John Watson. He lived alone, tormented by memories of Afghanistan and hindered by a battle wound that forced him to walk with a cane.
When a person hits rock bottom, there is often no where else to go but up. That was the case for John who was broke and lonely when he found his way to 221B Baker Street and subsequently stumbled into the life of the world's only consulting detective.
The eighteen months he spent with Sherlock was the happiest time of his life. In the long run, it was a short amount of time but it was the defining moment of John's life. He had a best friend. He didn't feel alone. He no longer used a cane. He stopped going to therapy. The crimes that he and Sherlock solved had been extremely dangerous and there were more than a few brushes with death, but that was nothing new for the ex-army doctor.
Sherlock Holmes was a strange and enigmatic man. He was brilliant, yes, but he also had a difficult time understanding human emotions. John surmised that this was his only weakness. Sherlock could annoy him like no one else, but John was always elated when he was dragged out of the flat to solve a case.
Three years had passed and there were no more cases to be solved. With a heavy heart, John finally gained the strength to delete Sherlock's website and his own blog. They were no longer needed. To John, it felt like another step towards acceptance. But he did not want to accept the death of his only friend. Despite his inner torment, John decided to stay at 221B Baker Street. The flat would never be the same without the presence of Sherlock and his refrigerated heads and chemistry paraphernalia, but John could not leave the place in a state of permanent darkness and emptiness.
He even managed to keep his job. He would simply work during the day and spend the evenings and weekends to himself, quietly reading or contemplating. Mrs. Hudson suggested that he start dating again, so John went out with a few women but started no serious relationship. The few dates he had quickly fizzled away and he never spoke to those women again.
This was a solitary life for John Watson. He was used to his own company, but those three years proved to be the loneliest. Having never experienced a loss of someone so important before Sherlock, John had never known just how deep that knife could cut.
I feel so alone on a Friday night
Can you make it feel like home, if I tell you you're mine
It's like I told you honey
It was on a typical night that John found himself alone once again in the flat, tucked in an armchair in front of the fireplace with a glass of whiskey. After Sherlock's death, he started drinking more than he used to. He knew that it was not a smart way to cope, so he only pulled out the alcohol on the nights when he felt especially alone. This was one of those nights, when he would pass a glance over to Sherlock's empty leather chair or around the flat, which had never been rearranged. John could not bring himself to even touch Sherlock's belongings and because of this, the human skull stared down at him from the mantelpiece.
John closed his eyes and took a sip of his whiskey. The amber liquid burned his throat and he sighed when it settled into his stomach. Gazing into the crackling fire, he heard the creaking of the door hinges and felt a presence enter the flat. John, thinking this was only Mrs. Hudson inviting him over for tea, said nothing and remained fixed in his seat.
A few moments had passed and Mrs. Hudson had not said a word, which felt strange to John.
"Mrs. Hudson?" he questioned.
"John…" said a deep male voice just above a whisper. It was a voice that John knew so well, even after three years. Drawling and musical at once.
John's heart began to beat wildly and threatened to burst from his chest. He looked over his shoulder and saw the tall, pale figure standing in the doorway, gripping the doorknob. John's mouth hung open as he set the glass of whiskey on a table and quickly rose from his chair.
"Sherlock," he breathed, taking in the sight before him.
Could this be a cruel figment of his imagination? If it was, his tired, run-down mind was doing a fine job because the man that stood before him appeared real enough to touch. He was there, and John knew it. His greatcoat with the collar pulled up over his neck. His blue fringed scarf knotted around his neck. His mop of dark curls. His mesmerizing eyes that lit up when they met John's. All of it was there in 221B Baker Street.
"John," Sherlock spoke again, his voice full of joy. His lips turned up in a slight smile.
Without even thinking, John rushed over and wrapped his arms around his friend. Digging his fingers into the thick greatcoat, tears fell from his eyes and he pressed his cheek against Sherlock's chest. How was he real? How was John able to hold him? It should have been a dream, but the warmth and the rhythmic rising and falling of his breath against his face let him know that this was no dream.
Even though Sherlock was a stranger to human contact, he eagerly embraced John in return, wrapping his arms tightly around his back. Closing his eyes, he allowed the moment to take over. After all this time, he was finally home with his best friend, John Watson.
Sherlock Holmes was back.