Disclaimer: The BBC television show Sherlock does not belong to me, nor do the characters in this story. This is for entertainment purposes and I am not making a profit of it.
a/n: oneshot. suicide-trigger. johnlock if you squint. angst, angst, angst. also, i'm american, so any inaccuracies are because i have never been to London. i'll just apologize in advance.
Sherlock Holmes: The Great Detective…
The cursor on John's screen blinks back at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his damn sentence and then type the rest of his blog entry. He just wants closure. It's been three year's since Sherlock's… dea-no, disappearance, and yet he still can't bring himself to write a damn blog entry about him.
"You've been gone for three years now, Sherlock. Surely, I should be able to write about how you were a horrible flat mate, shouldn't I?" He speaks to the empty room.
Three years. It's seemed like longer. He used to wake (and fall asleep to) the sounds of a violin echoing around the entire flat. He'd smell burning experiments in the kitchen, chemicals sizzling and bubbling over onto stained notebooks holding chicken scrawl handwriting. The microwave with a hand inside and the fridge with a head sitting expectantly. Now he wakes to sweat-soaked sheets, a scream-hoarse voice, and a cold flat. Instead of violins, he hears the streets of London bustling about. He smells emptiness, if that even has a scent. If it did, he'd smell it. Everything's cold now.
Sometimes, he thinks about moving out. Maybe getting a nice flat farther out of town. Or, better yet, renting out a cozy cottage in the country. Then he sees that damn couch and his scarf and his coat and his bloody books and laptop and that bloody mug that sits in the cupboard that was- is Sherlock's favorite and he tells himself to stop thinking foolish thoughts because he'll never leave this flat. There're too many memories wrapped up in the silly flat, and sentiment was never John's forte, but here he is, avoiding a smelly couch and talking to a skull on the mantle.
He stands from his chair, walking by the couch that still lingered with Sherlock's scent and still had a familiar form shaped in its cushions, and ambles to the kitchen. Maybe fixing himself a nice cuppa will help him. He sets the kettle on to boil, standing back against the counter, and literally watches water boil. The kettle begins to scream and he grabs his cup and is going to pick up the kettle when a pale hand reaches out and does it for him. He stops in his tracks, looking up at his thought-to-be-deceased-flat mate, and nearly drops his tea.
Sherlock looks nearly the same, only a little less put-together, and without his blue scarf and black collared coat (but that's only because John still has them and they lay near the couch, because he hopes that putting everything that stills smells of Holmes in one place with preserve the scent).
He shakes his head once, blinks, and walks past him, not even touching his shoulder. Sherlock looks hurt and confused for a moment, but he brushes it off and follows John to the living room. When John wants him to talk, he'll talk.
John goes to work in the morning, eating a slice of toast as he pulls on a jumper. He throws on a coat and leaves 221b, not even casting a fleeting look at Sherlock as he goes. The detective waits a few minutes, standing in the middle of the living room, before he grabs his black coat and blue scarf from the couch and leaves as well.
He considers shouting down to Mrs. Hudson, but doesn't. Instead, he just exits the flat and hails a cab.
"Scotland Yard, please." He tells the cabbie, sitting back and watching the London streets wiz by.
"Hello, Sherlock," Lestrade doesn't look up from his desk as Sherlock walks into his office. Sherlock nods to him in return and sits down across from the detective inspector. It's become a daily occurrence for Sherlock to visit Greg since he'd returned to London two weeks prior. They usually talk about simple things: cases, the weather, if Sherlock had stopped by John's and told him that hey, I'm not dead, want to have dinner?
"I visited John last night." Sherlock voices, and Lestrade looks up from his paperwork.
"And?" He prompts. Sherlock sighs, reclining in his seat and closing his eyes.
"He won't speak to me. I think he's still a bit annoyed. " Greg sighs and rubs at his eyes. "You're angry with me as well." Sherlock observes and Lestrade barks out a laugh.
"Oh, no," He answers sarcastically. "I'm chuffed to bits that you waited three years before gracing us with your wonderful presence. I'm sure John's quite happy too."
"Don't be daft, Greg. You know that I only did it to keep you and John safe." Sherlock is angry at this point, with Greg and with himself. He stands from the chair.
"Tell John I'll be stopping over tomorrow morning." Lestrade commands and Sherlock snorts.
"He'll ignore me."
"That's your problem, not mine." Sherlock smiles as he leaves.
"See you tomorrow, Greg."
"You as well."
"Good morning, John," Lestrade greets as he enters the room the next day, looking around at the disarray and frowning.
"Do you have a case for me or something?" John asks as he walks to the kitchen to make Lestrade a cup of tea. He opens the cupboard and sees Sherlock's mug right in the front. He pushes it aside and grabs a regular cup, beginning to make the cuppa for the detective inspector.
"No, I just wanted to pop in and see how you're doing." Greg answers, sitting down in John's chair and pushing his laptop to the side.
"I'm fine." John states, walking out with his tea and handing it carefully to him.
"I know." Greg replies. Then, suddenly, Sherlock enters the room. John's eyes briefly flicker to his, looking back to Lestrade's quickly. Greg follows his line of vision and turns around, spinning around and looking back to John with concern. Sherlock's eyes flick to John's as the older man and Lestrade sit in silence. John avoids his gaze.
"I'll be going then. Thank you for the tea, John." Lestrade stands, shooting one quick look back to where Sherlock had been standing, and walks out of the room.
John lets out a shuddering sigh before picking up his laptop and beginning to type again.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock says suddenly, and John looks up from his laptop.
"I know you are." He sighs, smiling quickly before looking away from the man in the corner and back down to his blog, where he still can't finish the entry about his flatmate.
"I'll fix you some tea?" Sherlock offers, but John shakes his head, blinking tears out of his eyes. He smiles tightly.
"I'm fine, thanks."
The next day, when John leaves for the hospital, Sherlock puts his next plan into action. First, he cleans up the kitchen. He washes the dishes and puts them away, setting his own mug right in the front of the cupboard again, there for easy access. He cleans up all of his lab equipment, stashing it in his bedroom and dusts around the table.
The living room is a bit more difficult, seeing as John hadn't ever cleaned up Sherlock's miscellaneous papers and boxes. He sorts through things and throws things away, and by the time the sun has set, the flat is completely clean. Sherlock wipes his brow and smiles before grabbing his coat and walking out the door, going to pick up some take-out for him and John so they can eat and have a nice long talk. He passes Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.
"Hello, dear," She greets, smiling at him. "Just going to fetch the paper from John." Sherlock nods, squeezing past her and breezing out the door.
Mrs. Hudson enters 221b, bypassing the kitchen and going straight for John's chair, picking the paper up. She turns around and is about to walk out the door and back to her own cozy flat to put her feet up and read while drinking some tea, but she sees that Sherlock has left the glass cleaner out. She sets down the paper and grabs the cleaner, going towards the bathroom to put it away.
She's almost done when John walks in, seeing her with the glass cleaner in hand. He looks around the flat and sees the cleaning Sherlock's done.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but you really didn't have to-"
"Nonsense, darling," She points the bottle at him. "It'd been left lying around so I figured I'd put it in its proper place for you."
"Yes, but you didn't have to clean the whole flat!" He says, astonished. She shakes her head and laughs and winks before grabbing the paper and leaving. John looks around the flat and smiles, really smiles, before dropping down into his chair. He fully intends to stay awake and write something on his blog, but sleep claims him too quickly.
When John wakes, the flat smells of Chinese food and there's a blanket over him. Sherlock is sitting in the chair across from him, staring at the doctor.
"I got dinner but you were sleeping when I came in. I didn't want to wake you." Sherlock pulls his legs to his chest, seeking approval or anger from John. Anything but the sadness that he receives. John pulls himself out of his chair, ambling to the kitchen and grabbing a fork and his dinner. He sets his shoulders before yelling downstairs.
"Thanks for the dinner, Mrs. Hudson," He yells, ignoring Sherlock's hurt and confused face as he sits on the couch and turns on the telly.
"I'm worried about John." Sherlock states, sitting down at Lestrade's desk once again.
"Why?" Lestrade questions, and Sherlock stands from his chair and begins to pace the room, his finger clasped in front of his chin.
"He won't talk to me, and when he does, he seems sad. I cleaned the flat and brought him dinner and instead of thanking me, he thanked Mrs. Hudson. I just… miss talking to him." He's silent for a minute before Lestrade breaks the quiet.
"I'll see what I can do."
Sherlock climbs the stairs to 221b, pulling his scarf and coat off as he goes. He enters the flat loudly, throwing his things on his chair and walking into the kitchen. He notice's John's absence, but shrugs it off and opens the fridge. It's empty except for a little bit of the take-out he'd put in there last night, so he slams it shut and goes to the living room. He's about to pop on a nicotine patch and think about what to do with John when he hears a strange sound.
"John?" He questions to the empty flat, receiving no answer. He shakes his head and grabs the paper, and suddenly there's another strange noise. It almost sounded like… a sob? "John, is that you?" He asks again, standing up and making his way towards the bathroom, where he knows the sounds have originated. He enters and almost falls to his knees.
Empty bottle of prescription sleeping pills on the counter, tipped over, probably from John's shaking hands. Door unlocked; he wanted someone to find him. John almost passed out near tub, eyes red and drooping. Hands shaking, leg twitching. He's tried to kill himself.
John.
John's tried to kill himself.
"John!" Sherlock shouts, running towards the shorter man. He drops to the ground and take's John's face in his hand, looking in his unfocused eyes. "What have you done, you blundering idiot?" Sherlock cries, slapping John's cheek to keep his eyes from closing. He drags John over to the toilet, setting him down in from of the bowl.
"I'll be right back," He yells, running out into his bedroom and searching through all of the cleaned-up lab equipment. He finally finds the almost-empty container of ipecac syrup and runs back to the bathroom, bottle clutched in his hand
"Sh'lck?" John slurs as Sherlock enters and kneels next to him.
"Yes, yes, it's me. I need you to open your mouth." Sherlock babbles, opening the bottle of syrup and waiting for John to open his jaw before pouring a bit in his mouth. Almost immediately, John seizes over and vomits into the toilet, emptying his stomach of the poison he'd taken.
"Hurts," John whimpers, his stomach seizing again as he continues to vomit.
"God, you're an idiot," Sherlock mumbles again, rubbing John's back.
"'m tired." John slurs, and Sherlock puts his hands under John's arms, lifting him to his feet and dragging him to the bathtub, turning the shower on full-blast, spraying both men with cold water.
"Don't fall asleep." Sherlock commands as he lays John in the tub. The detective pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Lestrade's number with slick fingers.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade asks, confused at why the detective is calling and not texting.
"Greg, I need you to bring an ambulance to the apartment."
"Why? Are you hurt?"
"No, it's John." Sherlock presses the end button and look back to where John is slumped in the tub, wide awake and looking deathly pale.
"You're dead." John says suddenly, stuttering a bit. Sherlock's eyes snap to meet John's hazy blue ones.
"That's no reason for you to be." Sherlock answers, wiping the tears from his eyes.
Lestrade sits by John's hospital bedside, one hand sitting near his leg on the blanket and the other in his pocket.
"So, why'd you do it?" He finally asks, raising his eyebrows in John's direction.
"I miss him. So much. And I just couldn't live with seeing his… memory everywhere." John whispers, closing his eyes and letting his head sink back into the stiff hospital pillow.
Sherlock walks into the room, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. John's eyes open and lock with Sherlock's. He squeezes them shut tightly, a pained look on his face.
"You were going to tell me when he woke!" Sherlock cries at Lestrade, and the man just shrugs.
"Sorry. Now, I think you two need to talk." He says, standing from his seat and brushing by Sherlock as the detective walks closer to the bed.
"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asks, seeing the shocked look on the doctor's face.
John's eyes sweep between Sherlock's and Lestrade's, who has paused in the doorway.
"John, are you alright?" Lestrade asks.
"You can see him too?" John stutters, looking back and forth between the men, blue eyes wide. He begins to cry silently as Sherlock sits down in the chair, pulling it forward without a word and setting directly next to John's head.
"Oh, John." Sherlock whispers, leaning over and brushing the tears from John's cheeks.
"I- I… thought I was imagining you." John confesses before breaking into sobs. Sherlock immediately leans farther over and pulls John to his chest, locking eyes with Lestrade over the doctor's head as the man sobs.
"It's alright, I'm here." Sherlock soothes, rubbing John's back.
"You're real." John cries out, fingers bunching in Sherlock's coat.
"I'm real, I'm here. And I'll never leave you again."
a/n: uhm. angst. and it's sherlock. it's the first fic i've written for this fandom, and wow, i legit typed it up in one night. so. i hope you enjoyed it, and maybe you'll be seeing more of me here in sherlockland. thanks for reading!
lessthanthree,
Max