This is because tomorrow is the last day of Sherlock for god knows how long. Hope you enjoy it.
Your fingertips across my skin
The palm trees swaying in the wind, images
You sang me Spanish lullabies
The sweetest sadness in your eyes, clever trick
John Watson sat in his chair at number 221B Baker Street, no expression on his face and no cup of tea in his hand.
He just sat there.
It was quite, there was no sound in the air, despite it being in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday. It was so very quiet, and it had been for a while now.
Sherlock Holmes opposite him, head in his hands muttering to himself. He was also quite, apart from the odd muttering of words.
He looked to the man in the opposite chair, and frowned. John hadn't been talking to him lately, anything he said would be just be ignored by the Doctor.
It wasn't like he wasn't used to being ignored, but when John did it, it just seem to bother him more than it did with other people.
He looked at what the Doctor was wearing. Typical, he thought, rolling his eyes, the Doctor was sporting another one if his hideous jumpers.
Sherlock sighed, he couldn't think why he was angry at him, he hadn't done anything dangerous or not very social in months.
He even went to buy milk the other day, it wasn't his fault the person behind the counter refused to take his money. Rude person.
He jumped up suddenly, and started pacing, rushing passed the mirror but never looking in it. John didn't even flinched just sat there, staring at his Violin.
Sherlock was getting annoyed now, it was one thing to ignore him for, oh 2 days, 15 hours, 27 minutes and thirteen seconds (not that he was counting) but it was another thing for him to act like he didn't even care!
He turned to the Doctor.
"John, I don't know what I've done, why won't you talk to me!"
John simply shifted a little in his chair.
"I'll start talking to the head again" Sherlock threatened
But John simply stood up from his chair, dusted down his jumper ( it was white with a few red squiggly lines today) and began to walk towards the door.
"I think I'll just go see Mrs. Hudson" he said just as he reached the door, before promptly slamming it behind him.
It wasn't exactly what Sherlock wanted but it was a start.
Sighing he simply sank back into his chair, wondering what time John would be back, and debated on calling Lestrade and asking for a case, it seemed like it had been months since he has talked with the DI.
He tried not to notice John hadn't invited him.
It was only when the door slammed shut again, voicing John's return, that he noticed he had fallen asleep.
Watching him like a hawk, Sherlock stared at John as he walked straight past him and went into the kitchen, promptly turning the kettle on.
"I-I saw your brother today"
Sherlock almost jumped (had he not been a Holmes he might have) at how quiet he was, he leaned forward, nodding, as if to tell him to continue. Although John still wouldn't look at him.
"He talked about you, as usual"
Sherlock scoffed at that, trust Mycroft to use any and every opportunity to talk about him.
"You ought to ignore him John" he sighed "Otherwise you'll only encourage him so"
"I-I know, I shouldn't be talking about you with him but, but he needs it...I...
But before he could finish the kettle rang to indicate that it had indeed boiled, and quick as anything, John had poured himself a cup of tea, added the milk and sugar, and went straight towards the door.
"I'll be over at Mrs Hudsons"
With that said the door was once again shut and Sherlock was left to sit in the dark, wondering what he'd done that had make John so angry.
Sherlock Holmes concluded today that he was sick. Very sick indeed.
Lately he had been having blackouts of the strangest nature. He would blackout for god knows how long, and then wake back up, usually if John comes back into the room. But he sometimes would wake up and he'd be walking, or standing in places and couldn't remember how he got there.
Not a lot worried Sherlock Holmes, but he was beginning to think that this did worry him.
He wanted to ask John for some sort of medical advice, but alas, the good Doctor was still ignoring him.
It really was beginning to frustrate him to know end. Take now for instance, the Doctor sat there, staring at his Violin. Wouldn't look or say a word to Sherlock, just sat there and stared.
Why was he so angry at him?
What had he done, really?
"Molly and Lestrade mentioned you today you know?"
Sherlock was beginning to think he may need to put a bell on John, these random outbreaks of talk were making him twitchy.
"They...they really love to talk about you, Molly really loved you, you know"
Sherlock said nothing, no doubt despite whatever she said, the girl would always have some sort of affection for him.
"O-Of course you wouldn't care, you selfish bastard!"
And with that, John Watson stormed out of 221B Baker Street yet again.
Sherlock really needed to do more studies on human emotions, even these ones baffled him. Really, running out like a girl in the middle of her menstrual cycle.
How domestic.
John still hadn't spoken to him properly, sometimes he doubted he ever would.
Despite their original upsets, Sherlock really did care for the Doctor. Sometimes in more ways than he liked to think.
But, at the end of the day, he was a Sociopath. High functioning maybe but he was one, non the less. He struggled to express his emotions (although that didn't mean he didn't feel them) he simply couldn't and wouldn't feel guilt.
Not a single point in his life did Sherlock Holmes ever recall feeling guilty.
And sometimes that scared him, more than he liked to admit.
He hadn't left the flat in weeks...or was it months, days maybe? He had lost count. He didn't feel the need to go out lately
Neither did John apparently, the man either went to see Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, or his brother (he wasn't very impressed by the last one)
He hadn't seen a girl in quite a while either.
However he did notice John seemed to be dresses in a rather splendid pair of new shoes.
"Date" he thought subconsciously.
He still hadn't looked in the mirror in a while.
He had nearly brought his date back in the house, Sherlock had observed, but had clearly had a small argument on the door step.
"Good" thought Sherlock "Don't need more small IQ's to ruin my mind"
The door slammed shut with a huge force as John all but threw himself in the door, slammed his "man bag" on the table and began to pour himself a drink.
"What happ" Sherlock began
"What a bloody cheek! How dare some man tell me how to live my life, its my life!"
John had, at this point, taken to big swigs of his whisky.
"If I want to walk around my flat, talking to...to...to, to anyone, he has to right in which to say I am right or wrong"
"You don't need that man John" Sherlock tried "Ignore idiots, just keep to work, like I do"
"I suppose I should keep to work, like you do"
"Yes, that's what I.." Sherlock said again, wondering if he'd been misheard, but it was to late.
John had already shut the door and gone to his room.
He was in a church.
And it was raining...quite a lot. He was soaked to the bone, before the feeling of annoyance crept into his system.
Clearly he was on a case, as he spotted John, Donnovan, Anderson, Lestrade, Molly and Mycroft all standing by an unmarked grave.
His brother had his umbrella out...typical. He approached them.
"Sorry about that, now tell me, go over what we discussed, what do we have. Oh! And try not to put in any input Anderson, wouldn't want the dead's IQ to drop as well, would we?"
"Do you two need a moment alone" said Mycroft, looking at John.
Nice one Mycroft, real mature, clearly he knew why John was angry at him.
"I always need a moment alone with him" John laughed.
"We shall leave you to it then, see you in the Church Doctor Watson"
"Again Mycroft, its John"
"Of course, John" and with that he dipped his umbrella, and off he and the others went inside.
John knelt by the grave.
"Why are you kneeling, there isn't much by the soil, I checked, who's grave is it anyway..."
Sherlock had stopped talking at that, for three reasons exactly.
John was now crying.
The others had also been crying.
He was staring at his own grave.
"W-What..."
It all made sense now! Why John wasn't talking to him, why he never left the house, why he wouldn't look in the mirror, why he was blacking out.
He died.
"I...I don't u-understand"
And he didn't, when did he...Oh.
Reichenbach.
Sherlock and Jim stood at the top of the waterfall.
"It ends here Jim" he began
"Indeed, Sherly, but who goes first" he began to giggle madly
Sherlock smirked, he know what he needed to do, it was him or Jim...or both.
He grabbed the consulting criminal by the shoulders.
"Lets end this like we began it, together!"
The man actually looked surprised.
John Watson chose that moment to reach the top of the balcony only to see that man he lov...that he...to see Sherlock fling himself over the edge, taking down the man who had haunted them for months with him.
It was the most selfless, brave, amazing, Sherlock Holmes ever did.
And he hated him for it.
"I-I hate you"
Sherlock jumped, he looked at his Doctor. And listen to him speak.
"I-I hate you so much! You have no idea do you? You never did, you were so clever, so brilliant, so you! You could guess everything about me at first glance and yet...you never...you never."
It began to rained harder.
"You never realised how much I loved you."
Sherlock looked surprised at that.
"So you're gone and I'm haunted by that every day, I talked to myself as if your there listening! I stare at that bloody Violin of yours. And I bet you are just fine, arn't you! You brilliant shit! Did I make it that easy to walk right in and out of my life?"
And those were the last words he heard again before he blacked out. But not before he had a chance to mutter.
"I don't want to die"
That had been three weeks ago.
When he had awoken, Sherlock realised that he was back at the flat. John was in his room.
He had come to accepted the fact he was dead. As odd as that sounded, he didn't really have much to do about it.
He knew why he never looked at the mirror. He looked bloody awful.
Scared decorated his face, blood smeared around the cheeks and near the eyes.
His clothed weren't even worthy to be called such anymore.
His poor coat.
He had one more...trial he needed to face before he could be setteled in his house.
He needed to try a theory, so at one O'clock in the morning, he sat apon Johns bed and began to whisper.
"John...John...JOHN. D-Do you love me?"
John shifted in his sleep.
Sherlock sighed, he knew this would never work.
"Y-Yes" a breathy voice muttered
Sherlock's face lit up like a child's on Christmas, before sobering again.
"Do you hate me?"
...
"Yes"
"W-Why?"
"Because you left me"
He began to tear up, he, brother to the man of ice, the freak of Baker Street, he was crying.
He. Was. Crying
The pain he had caused, the ending, he didn't feel sorry for it, only that he now couldn't spend time with John, he couldn't tell him...couldn't tell him.
He leant down to whisper.
"John I want you to know this"
"S-Sherlock?"
He jumped, and looked down, John was half awake, could he see him in this state?
He tried anyway.
"Yes John its me"
"A-Are you okay, are you safe"
"Yes John I'm both and I need you to go back to sleep soon but before you do I want you to know this, you meant so much to me, I needed you like no other. I know I never showed it, but please, understand, I couldn't as much as I would like to try, I couldn't."
He leant down closer, gave him a chaste his and whispered
"This belongs to you, and always will...I love you"
He said it. The three words he had struggled to say his entire life, the Doctor brought it out of him, and he loved him for it.
A bright light broke in the room just as John fell back asleep.
Sherlock understood, he had seen films and read books, as much he hated them. He still didn't want to go there though.
"I don't want to go" he whispered, tears pouring down his cheek.
"I'm just getting started"
But he knew he needed to.
He had never told anyone he loved them, he didn't even know if what he felt was love. He hoped it was.
But even if it wasn't, even if he had got wrong, he had told someone he cared about he loved them, and that was all he could ever ask for.
Even if it was in death.
And he stood in the light, tears made of, well he didn't even know, he looked on John.
He had been right all along, he did stay till the ends of time arguing with God.
He created Sherlock one way, and Sherlock had proven him wrong.
Even in death.
He had to admit it was pretty good, even by his standers.
Goodbye, my almost lover
Goodbye, my hopeless dream
I'm trying not to think about you
Why can't you just let me be?
So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
Should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do
The end.
Or is it?