Disowner- I don't own any of the characters in this story- they all belong to the BBC.
Authors note- Although I spellchecked it, there may be some spelling mistakes- sorry. Also there may be some slight John lock fluff. Sorry. Also this is my first ever fanfic- please excuse the length.
It was a bright morning, with illuminating shards of light streaming through the open windows in 221B lighting up the room so much so John woke with a start, Heart and lungs pounding, his nightmare slowly faded away into no more than a memory. Wiping his now wet forehead, John swung his legs over his bed and sighed. His empty flat awaited. No pet, no wife and (worst of all) no Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't a best-friend, he wasn't a colleague he was far, far more no one and nothing could compare to him. John pushed the images of Sherlock, with the paint of death over his glassy eyes and the river of blood streaming down his handsome face from his mind.
Unaware that he had been crying John slumped down into his chair and kicked the empty chair opposite. "Where the hell are you Sherlock when I need you." John growled. (Much like you, I had no idea humans could growl, but I assure you, John Watson growled) Yesterday was the 7th of September, therefore today was the 8th. Johns birthday. Last year, as a birthday present, Sherlock had taken John out for a murder mystery restaurant and solved the murder before anyone was even "killed".
This year John had a very busy line up of his very special day. For the first two hours he would sit and stare at the empty black chair opposite, tell himself he needed to move on and then burst into tears. Then he would get up, get changed and go to Speedys sandwich bar and treat himself to a bottle of Evelyn water and a packet of crisps. Then he would meet up with his therapist and talk about god knows what while nodding and saying yes though really daydreaming about solving murders with Sherlock, not even remotely letting on that it was his Birthday. And he called it a good day. However, it was about to take a change for the best. Better than John could ever imagine. Better than best it's self.
xxx
A ring sounded from down below. Mrs Hudson soon came running up the old fashioned staircase, a neatly packaged box in her arms. "It's for you, John, happy birthday by the way, I will leave you too it and maybe we can go out later huh, take your mind off things" she gave her one of a kind smile strutted out of the room. John glanced down at the blue coloured box and picked it up. Turning it over, he almost dropped the box to find that the label read, MISSING YOU, HOME SOON. A look of confusion slowly started to flow onto John's face, who was missing him? And who was coming home? Maybe Harry his sister, but why not sign it? Everything would more than likely be relieved inside. Opening the box, John found his hands were shaking, he was still thinking about Sherlock, even with a mystery in his hands. Literally. Sherlock would have been able to deduce who had given this to John with only a glance. Sighing he peered inside. Much to his surprise was a shiny new iPhone 6S, encased in a black cover with a blue stripe on it. John picked it up (hand still quivering) and turned it on. While his new phone fired up, John limped (his psychosomatic limp had returned- ever since the Fall) his way to the top of the stairs and yelled "A cup of tea please-no sugar and a couple of digestives please Mrs H" The reply was well predicted, even now. "Just because it's your birthday, I am not your housekeeper!" A smile flickered over John's face for the first time in days, he had forgotten what it was like to grin.
Phone in hand John sat by the fire place in his normal seat. Dropping the phone, he made a squeak, (John makes VERY inhuman noises-as I am sure you are aware) the background read, in beautiful colours, Happy Birthday John! Ever since the fall, John had become detached, barely opening his mouth, and not going out except for food, check ups and his therapy. Picking the phone back up, he realized that there was a new message, it was from a number he didn't recognize, and it read simply: Door,Now. Curiously John scratched his head. Then, as if in cue, the doorbell rang. The sound of Mrs Hudson's high heels clattered along the floor, until it reached the door. It opened and a scream sounded from below and then a bang. John ran to stairs,( forgetting his stick) and hurried down them, almost leaking with excitement. John stopped dead. His automatic breaks were screeched on at the last minute. He started swaying from left to right. Left. Right. Left. Right. For there, in front of him, smiling like a child having been brought a new toy, was Sherlock. He was as tall as ever, and his large black trench coat was open in the middle, showing his suit underneath. A tear rolled down his face, which was dark and bright at the same time. And his eyes, his eyes were glimmering like they do in cartoons, all large and shiny. The two ran to each other like a lost puppy and it's owner. They embraced in a hug, and looked into each other's eyes. No words were needed, for both knew what the other was trying to say. John gripped Sherlock's hand and held it tight, tighter than he would hold a cliff edge. He pulled it close. Opening his mouth to speak, John was surprised to see Sherlock's long bong finger (that he had missed so much) press to his own lips. Sherlock shook his head and gestured upstairs with his body. John understood and hand in hand the two trotted tirelessly upstairs. It was obvious that Sherlock was trying to conceal his feelings, but it was clear that he was just as excited as John, if not more. As soon as there were in the apartment, Sherlock closed the door and John (still holding Sherlock's hand like it was a toy) cried "Sherlock, oh Sherlock! How I've missed you!" Then John remembered Sherlock dead, on the pavement in front of him. Try he did to be angry but all he could feel was overwhelming happiness and curiosity. "You died though, you were dead. I even went to your bloody funeral" Sherlock chuckled and reply by saying "Well, let's just say I had help, but that's doesn't matter now, does it? Me and you are together again and that's all that matters. However no one else can know I am not "dead", for people are after me again, (can't keep their hands off me) and this is a safe place, for now."
Later that night, having spent the whole day doing experiments with Sherlock (and practically ruining the "kitchen"), the two were sitting together on the couch , watching "Doctor Who". Sherlock was asleep, head resting on John's lap. He was snoring ever so slightly, breathing in and out. John could not express the feeling to have Sherlock alive and breathing next/on him. Once again, John felt his way to Sherlock's hand and feel his pulse, feel his heart beating inside his body. Feel life surging through his tall body. At last, when "Doctor Who" had finished, John yawned, stretched and got up, laying Sherlock's head on the Union Jack pillow. Quickly he fetched a duvet and placed it over his roommate's body, then left. Tonight, for the first night in months, John would be able to sleep, soundly.
XXX
Rainy was the next day, with dark dwelling clouds looming over the horizon, ready to lash out at anyone who underestimated their power. The humble noise of boiling water spitting over the side of the silver pan, and the comfortable sound of the kettle roasting over the hob came from the kitchen. However both were overridden by the sound of a stunning Mozart. Sherlock was standing stubbornly, playing his tune, refusing to join in with Johns and Mrs Hudson's dancing- which was terrible and out of time. Soon though, the temptation was too much, and Sherlock switched to a merry, light hearted tune and skipped around with the two until they all fell to the floor, chests heaving heavily (especially Sherlock's) and laughing so hard the could wake the dead.
"Well, now you too are together again" Mrs Hudson hesitated, and John gave a knowing smile to Sherlock's face opposite, "Will you be getting married?" John winced and looked away from Sherlock's blue/green eyes. Normally he would have objected, but he was so glad to have Sherlock back, he would do anything to stay with him. And if that meant marrying him, so be it. Sherlock laughed and pulled himself up, offering his hand to John as he did so. " I am not sure that will be necessary." He concluded. John grabbed Sherlock's hand and, as a joined effort, heaved himself up. "I need to go and get groceries, coming with me?" He asked hopefully. "What, can't reach the stuff on the top shelf?" Sherlock sniggered. Sighing John left and closed the door behind him. "Good one" Mrs Hudson giggled.
XXX
It was still raining, and Sherlock's mood was slowly slipping down, like a feather falling from a 30 story building. It had been almost 3 hours since John had left, the co op was only 20 minutes away, and he hadn't returned. "That's it, I can't stand it any longer, I am going to see if he is OK." Sherlock jumped up from his chair and grabbed his gun. "I understand luve, can't stand to be parted from your baby" Mrs Hudson cooed, "it was the same for me when I fell in love" Sherlock however didn't catch this last bit as he we already out the door and sprinting along the street, coat flying behind him...
When he woke up John was sitting in a van, his body strapped up to a bleeping machine. Still drowsy, he prodded it and tried to work out what it was. To his dismay it was a bomb, small but powerful. This was all too familiar, and John wondered if he had time travelled. (His was still very badly drugged) However this conclusion was pushed away as, opposite him curled into a ball, was Sherlock's tall dark body. He looked so peaceful when he slept, with his dark locks curling over his forehead and a little childlike smile was spreading over his mouth. John smiled. Then remembered the bomb and stopped smiling. John kicked Sherlock gently in the shoulder, and his once closed eyelids flickered open. A frown grew on his face, and he say bolt upright, but only threw up and collapsed again. "We have been drugged Sherlock, you need to do things slowly and carefully" John said helpfully. So, slowly Sherlock sat up and leaned his head against the moving vehicle. He too had a bomb on his chest. "John are you OK, what happened, I feel ill, who is driving the van, oh John I feel terrible." Sherlock collapsed again. Little did John know it but that was the last time he heard Sherlock's voice for a while. To be honest, John couldn't remember much either. All he could remember was a kind face helping him in the co-op and the next minute a gun was pointing at his head and everyone was told to clear out and get the police or he would be shot. Their demand was simple, find Sherlock Holmes and bring him to them, alive. Unfortunately Sherlock had gone looking for John, and he too soon had a gun pressed to his head. After that John could only remember a sharp pain in his shoulder and darkness all around. John's only explanation was they were using Sherlock to get to John, or the other way round. This is what came after making friends (What was he thinking, best friends obviously) with the world's only consulting detective. John would rather it be like this though. Nothing and no one could deprive him of his stroppy, curly haired, handsome faced and super intelligent best friend. Not even Death.
Johns trail of thought soon came to a screeching stop as Sherlock gave a little moan in his slumber, and John smiled. Maybe, as long as Sherlock was alive, hope was there.
XXX
"John, oh John, you really might want to wake up." John groaned and opened his still drowsy eyes. A tall woman was standing over John's body. Her short blond hair was styled into a bob, and she wore a black cat suit. She stroke John's face and whispered" Well you are a handsome boy?" She giggled like a schoolgirl and pulled back her face. "Mind you" She raised her voice so if indeed anyone else was in the room they would have heard loud and clear, "not as cute as your friend!" The, on cue, a spotlight lit up, revealing more of the darkened room and Sherlock with it. John gasped. Like John, Sherlock had had his shirt removed and a different bomb strapped to his chest. At the sight of John, his face lit up into a brief smile, before remembering that he was indeed Sherlock Holmes, and had a heartless reputation to uphold. "Why are we here?" John questioned curiously, while giving Sherlock a are you ok now look. Sherlock nodded happily. "You might find out, if I don't kill you before hand" The woman answered, shrugging as she did so as if this was a comment a normal human would say on a daily basis. She clapped her hands together suddenly, as if remembering something. "Goodness me, I do have rather a lot to get along with. As much as I would love to stay and gawp at your friend all day, life calls! People to blow up and places to terrorise! Don't worry though, I will fit you boys in later" And with this, she strutted out of the hall and pushed open the door but stopped just before she left. "Oh, and while I am away, feel free to shuffle closer to each other, but don't get too physical, there are people watching. And my name is Mary. Mary Morstan." Before she left John was able to yell "WE ARE NOT A COUPLE!" after Mary who was seen walking down a dark tunnel humming the James Bond theme tune as she went.
As soon as the door had closed, John and Sherlock instantly shuffled closer together. "God John, she told me that you had been shot!" Sherlock smiled. Seeing the look on John's face, Sherlock continued. "obviously I never believed her but I was still worried."
"mmmm" John smiled. "John I am so tired - do you mind?" Before John could ever comprehend what was happening, Sherlock's head was on his shoulder asleep and smiling. He must have been pretty badly drugged, as Sherlock normally got five hours sleep in a week. John looked down at Sherlock and stroked his head. He cared about him so much and was not prepared to lose him again. So then, he vowed never to let him get harmed again. A vow that would soon be broken.
XXX
Mycroft was sitting in his front room, feet up on a table and a ginormous slab of cake on his lap. It was as far as relaxation went for him. A Soprano was on his large flat screen TV. BEEP! Mycroft picked up his phone and frowned. The text read:
Message Received from Number Withheld.
Will you miss Sherlock? When he is dead I mean. How about John?
The cake was put down. Then another text came through. It was a picture this time, of Sherlock and John with the bombs. The cake was forgotten. Finally, one last text came through.
Message Received from Number Withheld.
50 million and tickets out of England otherwise, BOOM BOOM!
Mycroft sighed and muttered, "The things I will do for my bothersome brother!" He then put through a call to the Secret Service, stood up and stretched.
XXX
John shook his head and opened his eyes to find Sherlock's beautiful, beautiful eyes looking up at him. Sherlock parted his lips into a smile. "I don't mind dying you know, not as long as we are together. I am so sorry John for putting you through what I did." John smiled back. " I forgive you Sherlock." "Good, good." he replied.
The two looked at each other for a grand total of 5 minutes 43 seconds before Mary Morstan came in and changed their lives. Again. She came in with a bang, and was wearing the same cat suit as before. "You two really have brought a tear to my eye in this conversation. It is like a fairy-tale ending!" Mary put on a princess voice, "And the two lovers lived happily ever after!" She sniggered at her own joke. "That's why Sherlock's going to watch you die John!"
Sherlock's once peaceful face erupted into a mixture of emotions. Sadness, anger and overall desperation. It was clear straight away Mary had hit his pressure point, his weak spot, his soft spot. He slowly started to break down mentally, and it resulted in him begging Mary, "P-please don't k-kill John. K-kill me instead!"
Mary shrugged and said ,"Fine your loss. I just thought I might want to gaze upon your face alive. But hey! No skin of my nose." At this she produced a syringe and stabbed it without warning into Sherlock's shoulder, and he instantly fell on the floor, the syringe went with it. Mary laughed and left the room. Bam! Sherlock's head hit the floor, and he groaned, visibly in unimaginable pain. Mary sniggered. She bent down stroked Sherlock's face and whispered "sweet dreams love." Then she cut the ropes that bound Sherlock to the chair and stood up. "Stand back Doctor Watson, this is going to be bad to watch." She smiled kindly, which was more than a little nerving and left the room once more after cutting Sherlock's ropes which tied him to his chair.
Just before Sherlock was claimed by unconscious, John managed to whisper to him, "Don't worry, I will sort everything out, you'll see!" He was saddened to see Sherlock so helpless and he shuffled over to where he was lying. It did wonder him why Mary had untied him, but the friend in him was worrying more about whether or not Sherlock was to die. Was Mary bluffing?
John just sat there ministering Sherlock's breathing, and thinking. However, he was slowly noticing Sherlock twitching every now and again. They were subtle at first, small and puny but were slowly getting stronger. Again and again they occurred, growing stronger with every shake. Suddenly Sherlock erupted into a fit, vigorously shaking and trembling all over. His eyes were wide open and glassed over. Sherlock kept on yelling one word over and over again while shaking, "JOHN! JOHN!" This was too much for poor old John and he too started to yell one word. "SHERLOCK!"
Then, Sherlock banged his head on the chair leg and immediately stopped his fit. Eyes closed he lay there, not visibly breathing. Dead? Maybe. John cracked. I mean big time cracked. He burst into laughter, and -like a madman- started singing at the top of his voice. " SHERLOCK'S DEAD, SHERLOCK'S DEAD! HE HIT HIS HEAD ON A CHAIR LEG!" He was squirming so much he somehow managed to break out of his ropes that bound him. Still he sang. "SHERLOCK'S GONE AGAIN, GONE AGAIN, I WILL GO TOO THEN!" He dropped to the stone cold floor, chair tumbling with him. The jolt bought him back to reality. John just lay there, next to Sherlock crying silently. How dare the universe take him away from John again?
Then he saw it. Lying on the floor half full. The syringe. John fingered it and smiled. Maybe he could still be with Sherlock. John lifted his heavy, heavy head and looked at Sherlock's handsome face and ran his fingers through his fringe one last time before kissing his forehead. Then with a whispered "see you soon Shirley," John injected the chemicals into his shoulder.
XXX
Mycroft ran through the old, forgot tunnels of the long deserted tube line beneath the now active London Underground. This was Morstan's hide out, her rabbit run, her base. Though probably for not much longer. The place was crawling with the British Intelligence now, only an Idiot would return, and Morstan was anything but that. Far from it.
Mycroft breathed deeply, in time to the dripping of the old taps as he ran. He was just running anywhere and everywhere, with a torch in his hand, and his mind on autopilot, there was only one thing on his mind. Saving Sherlock and John. Oh, don't get me wrong, Mycroft was not a hero, nor was he intending to become one, but his brother was all he had left after he lost.., well that's not needed to be mentioned. All that mattered was to keep running.
Suddenly he came to double doors, which were well lit and welcoming in the gloom of the tunnels. Mycroft broke his gun, loaded it and then walked in. He croaked with displeasure and dropped to his knees. For, there in front of him, was Sherlock and John, pale as you can get, with lips blue, huddled up together. Mycroft belted at the top of his voice for the paramedic team, Then everything went black, he felt stone beneath his head, then nothing.
XXX
BEEP, BEEP. Sherlock awoke to find himself stung up with wires, cords and a large array of other things that he was too tired to identify. White, a white room. Hospital then. Why was he here again? Ah. Yes. Mary. It all came tumbling back like when water finally breaks a dam. "JOHN!" Sherlock screamed. Where was he? He tried to sit up but his body disobeyed him. What was this?
Then Mycroft came into the room. He was wearing his usual black suit and a worried smile. A smile that lied and said everything is alright. Which it of course wasn't. " Sherlock. You are awake. At long last. No, don't speak, your condition will only get worse. What condition? Well my dear little brother, you have been in a coma for a month. I don't know what was in that syringe but it was terribly dangerous. After all, you are the expert on chemistry." Mycroft smiled that smile again. It had been used when Mycroft had Broken to Sherlock that Redbeard, his dog had died. "What has happened, where is John, why are, you lying?" Sherlock whispered, almost unheard. "Ah, well. Um. John is, sort of, on life support. He is in a much deeper coma that you were, and he sort of, well, is dead. But being kept alive by a machine. Judging by what security we have, he couldn't stand the thought of you being dead, so he too injected himself with the serum, but ended up taking, um, a much larger dosage." Sherlock frowned and said, "John, on life support. Stop being horrible Myc , that would never happen" Mycroft smiled kindly. That was all Sherlock needed.
He wept. Wept more that he thought possible. This wasn't meant to happen! John was his person, and the world couldn't take him away. His only friend. "P-please can I see him?" Sherlock stuttered, his once deep and beautiful voice shattered. "Yes. I think that could be arranged." "T-thank you. On a scale from 1 to 10, ten being the highest, what is the chance of him p-pulling through?" Sherlock asked, hope still clinging to his throat. "From what the doctor said, I am thinking a 1." Mycroft relied with a sad tone. "Oh- o-ok" Sherlock yawned, and then Sherlock fell back to sleep, with troubled dreams of heart ministers stopping.
XXX
Once Sherlock was up and moving, and seen fit and ready, he was aloud to see John. Or what was left of him anyway. Mycroft was pushing Sherlock in a wheelchair, along the corridor. A large sign reading "ICU" was looming in front of them, "ready?" Sherlock nodded. The two walked in.
It was a brightly lit room, with four beds, all facing the windows. There was a couple of drips next to some beds, others with heart monitors and even one with a ventilator in its patient's mouth. To his horror, Mycroft pushed Sherlock over too that very bed. There John lay, looking more peaceful than he ever had before, his blond hair falling over his eyes. Sherlock started to make a loud, high pitched noise, which sounded very much like a bee on helium. A tear rolled down Sherlock's pale cheek. "Oh, John, why? I am sorry I came back. Look at you. Just look at you. You didn't deserve this. Can you hear me? Probably not. Wake up John! Wake up! Now! WAKE UP! NOW! JOHN! Please. please!" Sherlock was becoming desperate. "Sherlock, John can't hear you. He is in a coma" Mycroft patted his back as he said this. "Go away Mycroft. Before I kill you." "W-what?" Mycroft gave a worried laugh. "You heard what I said. Go away, or I will kill you." "You can't be serious." Sherlock gave a look, a bad, dark look. Mycroft left hurriedly, a frown on his face as he left. What the hell had come over Sherlock?
"At last we are free John, it has been nearly 2 months since I saw you last. You really look peaceful," And so Sherlock sat there, by John's bed, for hours. Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks as Sherlock simply sat there, nattering to John about God knows what.
Then one morning, when the rain was heavy, and the wind was loud, a doctor came into the room and sat on John's bed, being careful not to squish him. Slowly, Sherlock lifted his heavy head and glared at the doctor, who, by Sherlock's deductions, was going out with three women, was in a state of deep depression, and on top of it all, his father had died. Sherlock scoffed, a small part of his old self still there. "Mr Holmes I presume. Hello. I am Dr Amelstone, Johns doctor." No reply. "Anyhow, I am here to talk to you about John. Well, lately, his life support has been showing signs of, well, John will never wake up. We are keeping him alive, and, um, it has been about 3 months now, and, um, other patients need the ventilator. Patients who have a better chance of living. It's not fair on you, or him, to keep John alive. We are giving you, and John, um, false hope, and I think it might be time to say goodbye Mr Holmes. After all no one can live forever can they, I think you proved that." Still no reply.
Sherlock's eyes had glazed over, leaving dead, quiet pools where raging blue sees had once been. He nodded and kept silent. "Sherlock? Can you hear me? Its ok. It's ok" This time Amelstone got a reply. "No. It's not ok. IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OK!" Sherlock yelled, his face still emotionless, and a white as the dead. He broke down into a sob, and then the feelings came racing back, like a water exploding from a dam. A well built dam. That was when Sherlock Holmes, man of mystery, man of wonder, became a boy again. "It wasn't meant to end like this, it just wasn't." Sherlock whispered. The Last he saw was Doctor Amelstone shutting down the ventilator, with a glum face, before he ran from the room, muscles stiff from weeks of sitting whispering, "Murderer." under his breath
However, Sherlock was still fast, and agile, and he ran with power and anger, his breath getting louder with every exhale. He could only remember running, and running until, somehow, Sherlock was standing at the top of St Barts again. Breathing deeply, he whispered "For real this time John, I promise, "then he jumped. Sherlock flew through the air, arms stretched out to meet their full potential, their largest wingspan possible. His coat flapped behind him and before Sherlock knew it, he was dead, as dead as Sherlock Holmes can be.
1 week later.
Mycroft would not cry, he wouldn't. There had been enough of that already. There wasn't many people at their funeral, John was, wait- no, he HAD been pretty much alone, and most people thought Sherlock was dead already. It was only him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.
Despite the gloom of the day, it was beautiful whether; with a large sun in the sky, and the clouds a saintly white. Mycroft told himself once more that mourning was over. No more time for that now. No. Now was the time for revenge. Morstan was going to get it, and get it big time.
Still, it's a shame isn't it.
A shame that humans die.
But that is the shadow that comes with living.
Death.
And that is unpreventable.