The bright light from the screen illuminates the dank abandoned building. Another text from him. Another plea to be alive, to come home. The shadow of a once powerful man walks to the broken window, wishing more than anything to return to the bustling streets and the scent of freshly made tea. To return home.
John ties his brown shoes as he prepares himself for the endless mundane life he set for himself. Wake up, get dressed, listen to patients and prescribe meds, shower, eat, and go to bed. He was a shell of who he once was, barely talking to friends, ignoring Lestrade and Molly completely, even poor Mrs. Hudson. He just didn't want to deal with their pity. The sideways glances and false smiles. He couldn't handle it.
After the fifth patient to cough directly into John's face leaves, he almost prays for a fire to start or a murder to happen to end his suffering. He shakes his head to rid himself of painful memories of chasing murders through alleyways with a certain dark figure. As he enters the room and reads the patient form, he doesn't pay attention to the young woman eyeing him up and down.
"So you've come in today because of stomach pains Ms…?"
" No"
"I'm sorry?" John looks up from the page with a furrowed brow.
The dark haired girl crosses her leg. "I came to see you"
"Well uh..." John looks down and scratches his head. He has to admit that she isn't bad looking. Quite a looker really. But clearly way too young, hell she could even be half his age!
"I'm flattered, I really am, but I'm really not loo-"
"Not like that" She rolls her eyes and huffs. "I wanted to talk with you without that government official taking interest. This, of course, was the easiest way."
John instantly sits up straight, eyeing his potential enemy as his army training comes in to action.
"Who are you and what do you want."
Sherlock flops down on the deteriorating couch, his skinny frame barely making an impact. He sighs and brushes the too long curls from his face, glancing once again at his phone. Every single day he receives texts from John. Some cursing and yelling at him for who he is and what he did. Others, begging and pleading enough that Sherlock has to turn off the phone and resist the urge to throw it against a wall. Sherlock can picture John, his John, bent over a glass of whiskey, tears flooding down his cheeks like rivers as his body shivers and convulses with sobs as he sends hopeless texts. Sherlock does his best to drown those thoughts out with his work, just as he always has.
He checks the phone and tilts his head slightly. No new texts from John yet. Odd. Sherlock walks over to his thinking wall, covered in photos, newspaper clippings, scribbled notes, all edited in red with Sherlock's notes. At the very center is a portrait of James Moriarty. It's been 29 months, 13 days and 7 hours of work, and yet the web still stands.
It's another hour of work before Sherlock notices his phone flashing. A new text from John.
- You really aren't there are you. You haven't read any of these. You really are…dead… -JW
Sherlock tosses the phone to the couch, biting his lip to keep his composure. John wasn't supposed to give in. It's not like him. Sherlock sinks to the floor and pulls his legs in, using all of his concentration to not start crying. But even he can't stop the tidal wave of emotions breaking through. He silently sobs and shakes, his heart breaking at the knowledge that John Watson, the only one to see him as a person, who believed in him, has finally given up. The cold wind flows through the old house and Sherlock welcomes it, feeling as though he has no right to warmth anymore. What's the point?
John stands in Hyde Park next to the bench he and Sherlock last sat at. He sends a text and stares at the sky for a moment before pulling out a small container and swallows the two round pills. Tears gently roll down his cheek before he falls and the world fades to black.
- Is this what it felt like? Before the end? The world seems so full… of everything... Except you. And I'm sorry Sherlock, but I can't handle that anymore. I can't….. I'll see you soon. –JW
Sherlock almost drops the phone as his brain stops functioning. It's only moments later that he realizes his phone is buzzing from a call from Mycroft.
"I'm sorry Sherlock….. I failed you."
Sherlock throws the phone as hard as he can, not caring where it ends up. His hands hold his head, trying to contain the thoughts trying to burst through his skull. Why? No. It's not… It's not true. No. no no no no no no no no. Sherlock falls to the ground in a heap, trying his best to keep his lungs under control. Calm down Sherlock. You need to regulate your breathing to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. It takes him 2 hours before he can pick himself up and get his phone, dialing his brother.
" Get me a plane."
It takes Molly and Lestrade several moments to gather themselves as a freshly cleaned and alive Sherlock bursts through the doors of .
"Sher…" Molly stares, not able to form solid words
"You bastard!" Before Sherlock could open his mouth, a hard fist hits him square in the jaw, sending him stumbling to the side.
"I…suppose I deserve that." Sherlock stands straight and rubs his cheek lightly before another hand slaps him hard in the same spot.
Molly stands in front of him with puffy eyes from crying, her lower lip quivering.
"Really Molly?" Sherlock presses his now red cheek. "You were the one who came up with how I was to-"
"You idiot!" Molly yells as the tears start to flow again.
Lestrade puts his hand on her shoulder and glares at Sherlock.
"This… is your fault."
Sherlock stands taller; he should've known they'd be upset about John. The fact that Sherlock is alive simply makes things worse. For Lestrade at least. But they were right; this is completely Sherlock's fault. All of it. He should have had Mycroft monitor John better. But it's too late now.
"Let me see him."
Sherlock walks up to the body on the gurney, the white sheet covering the one thing he never wanted to see. He pauses a moment to ground himself before pulling the sheet back. Sherlock stands as his eyes trail the corpse in front of him, lingering on his face and then the scar on his shoulder.
"Did he have anything on him?"
Molly looks up and blinks before going and getting John's Ziploc bag of his effects.
Sherlock hastily goes through his clothes, checking everything.
"What are you looking for?" She asks quietly as she grabs another tissue for her eyes.
"This" Sherlock grabs a crumpled piece of paper in the bottom of the bag.
"Oh…." Molly looks down. "It's an awful note. He must have… written it before…" Molly chokes on her words and holds the tissue firmer.
In the note, John outlines everything he hates about Sherlock, every time he ever played violin too loudly, every body part in the fridge, every experiment, every case that went sour and the many fights they had over the years. Claiming Sherlock was a machine and a freak, and how he wished he'd never met the detective.
Sherlock pockets the note and quickly heads out the door of the morgue, ignoring Lestrade and Molly's questions of where he was heading.
He was going to find John.
Alive.
