So Just Close Your Eyes
Pairing: 'one-sided' johnlock.
Rating: Mature for cursing, thoughts, gore.
Gene: BBC Sherlock
Songs: MTV Countdown Music, Youtube Playlist, Lullaby - Nickelback
Credits: Sherlock Holmes and all it's contents belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. However the characters looks come from the BBC verison, with a hint of the 2010 movie.
Of course thanks to my lovely friends, Trina and Sammie! They were kind enough to offer ideas for certain parts! 3
Other: So guess what? This story was inspired by a song; Lullaby, Nickelback. Also by a picture http:/26(dot)media(dot)tumblr(dot)com/tumblr_lqgfv5Tfof1qgv7bbo1_500(dot)jpg . yes you'll understand later 3 ENJOY!
Lights dancing across the ceiling, water stains against the wall, tea bags torn and tossed about. The curtains ripped and tattered and the windows opened to let in the smoky air of the London night. Sirens and horns break any silence that may of induced the flat before. The flashes burst through the darkness, showing the form of a man in the far corner, head hung back tear tracks on his cheeks and a torn shirt, trousers stained with either piss or alcohol, possibly both.
Two Years Ago.
He stood there, looking down at the grave of his best friend, his flat mate and the only man he had ever truly loved. John Watson stood there, military fashion, with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson beside him. The three stood before the man that had saved each and every one of them single handedly more the once, and John's face was controlled. He stood strong as Lestrade let the tears fall, and as Mrs. Hudson choked on her own tears. He stood tall, and reached forward, grasping the grave with an gentle grasp.
"One more Miracle Sherlock... One more." The ex-army doctor whispered, lowering his head in a brief moment of sorrow. He feels hands on his shoulders and he straightens up, a brief nod, and turns, ushering the sobbing Mrs. Hudson and teary-eyed Lestrade from the grave-yard.
"Sssherlock?" A voice left the parted lips of the man on the ground. Torn, tired, sad, emotions of a man who had lost the better half of himself, forced from the man half drunk on the wall. His eyes wander around the living area of the flat he had once shared with the man he loved. "Sssherlock." He whispered, blue eyes wide and new found tears forming in his eyes as he reached forward. Train on what one would suspect as an illusion. A hand reached up from the wall as the blue eyed, ash blond haired man reaches forward.
"Pleassse!" The man's voice raises above that whisper, a normal tone that cracks and sounds like it had not been used in months. Tears rolling down cheeks as the man struggles to stand, bottle in one hand, other reaching for the stability of another who once stood by his side - like he had stood by his. "Don't leave me, not again!" The man screams, his body lunging forward, expecting lean arms to catch his fall, but he's meet with the sturdy floor and the fading image of his dead friend as if he is being swept from the room by the London air.
"SSHERLOCK!" The man screamed, reaching up with all his strength grabbing at the table as he watches the flickering image fade through the window. The man lunges again, this time grasping the curtain, his bottle laid discard off to the side. "Come back!" He shouted out the window, ignoring the looks from below as his arms pull him up and to wards the window's ledge. His eyes fixed on the floating form of his friend - all rational thoughts disregarded.
One Year Ago
He stands in the liquor store. His palms sweaty and his face flush as he hands over the last of the cash in his pocket, his eyes darting around the room. Blood shot and tear tracks clear on his face. He waits and soon the bag is in his hand and he's moving away from the cashier. Away from the crowd, and the store and onto the street. Head swinging from left to right as he struggles to learn his way.
Body tense as he turns left and then adjusts so he can turn right, he begins his walk home... no, not home - that place will never be home any more to him. It is his nightmare, his reoccurring nightmare that had once been a dream of paradise. His eyes and darting around him in hope and searching for the man who had made that dream of paradise a nightmare by disappearing, but taking his own life.
The worried movements, cause men and women alike to pull there children and friends away from him - clearing a path for him. Times like this he would shout about having lost the one he loved, the one he loved more then life it self. But this time was different and he moved onward, his mouth shut and his eyes now downcast, hope shattering as his mind screams it's over, but his heart battles back with a 'One more miracle Sherlock! Just ONE MORE!'
The stranger knocks into his shoulder roughly, causing the bottle to follow to the ground, breaking and shattering. But John can not move, his heart is breaking and as he finally turns to shout abuse at the man, he finds himself, meeting a hooded being, with startling blue eyes, and John's knees give way and another wave of sorrow over takes him and he's screaming Sherlock's name before he knows it.
"JOHN!" A feminine voice cries, small old leathery hands grasping his forearm. He swings his arm back, knocking the woman aside as he leaned forward once more, grasping into the air. "JOHN WATSON!" The man, otherwise known as John turns his blue eyes finally, those eyes - so tired, so sad onto the woman. His head hung low for a moment as if understanding the look of panic, fear and worry in the woman's eyes.
"I've called Lestrade John. You are not well." The woman speaks, and John shouts rambles of how unfair she is being. Shouting bloody murder as he picks up the dusty beaker that belonged to Sherlock and tosses it violently at the smiley on the wall. He's standing, blood rushing through his body as he turns to the elderly woman and tilts his head as she appears to be crying. John's heart starts to slow down to a normal rate. His eyes growing wide and his knees buckle.
Sobs take over his body, dirtied hands covering his face as his shoulders shake violently. Soft, sad words slipping past his lips as the elderly woman rushes to get the man a blanket. Her shouts of 'bloody hell' and 'John Watson!' show the worry, and panic as to what John on the floor has been doing. John knows what she sees, and he knows that it can never be explained, it's all come down to the need, the fix, the ability to try and live on - and yet, he can't find it in himself to do it.
"Lestrade, oh thank goodness, he's right- John!" The elderly woman shouts, and John kneels where he had been for the last thirty minutes. Bottle in hand, and tears staining his cheeks. Cane to the left of him, gun to the right. Lestrade moves forward. "I got him Mrs. Hudson. Go down stairs." A command, John notes. Lestrade moves quickly, bending down to John's level and placing a comforting hand on the ex-army doctor. A man, Lestrade thought he never see cry.
"What has happened to you John? Where is that strong man that used to live within you?" Lestrade questions, and too soon notices his mistake as John throws him off, with a chocked sob, turning those wet blue eyes to him, and Lestrade can see all the hurt within those two irises, that he can only just begin to imagine the last three years. Lestrade takes in the flats conditions, and then John himself, and he sighs.
The Fall.
And John reaches up, eyes never leaving the falling form of the man he loved. Eyes wide and horror in them as his lips and voice screams his name. "SHERLOCK!" The sickening crunch can be heard from here, and his heart is breaking, twisting and turn, tugging trying to break free of his chest. His eyes are misting over and his legs are moving on their own record. "SHERLOCK!" He's shouting as he's hit by the man on the bicycle. He's on the ground before he knows it.
His eyes snap open with in seconds, heart screaming 'Let it be a dream', but mind shouting the truth has happened, the great Sherlock Holmes has fallen to his doom, all because of something that happened on that roof, and John - foolish he was to have left him. John's eyes feel watery but he brushes it aside as he stumbles forward, pushing through the crowd. "HE'S MY FRIEND!" He shouts at their faces, collapsing beside the consulting detective, the blood pooling around his knees and he can't help but feel faint as he pushes his friend over and stares - the pulse is missing. "Sherlock!" He screams, shaking the body once, before he is moved.
He shouts a silent 'No' as he moved, and he shrugs off the men and women pulling him from his 'friend.' His whole body going into survival mode. "Sherlock! Please!" He shouts, blinking away the misty tears clouding his eyes. "I love you!" He screams, thrashing as the sirens are heard, and John's heart shatters a bit more.
"Come on, let's get you into some decent clothing." Lestrade speaks, and lifts the army doctor up. Both collapsing to the floor once before successfully getting up the second time. The first impressions of John's bedroom is the layer of dust, the ropes and the torn pieces of paper. The discarded laptop that seems to have been smashed to pieces and John's personal phone. The room is a mess and Lestrade leaves John on the bed as he searches for a pair of usable trousers and jumper.
But all he finds is torn clothing, photos of Sherlock and John and even a rarer photo of Sherlock laughing. Lestrade feels the tips of his mouth twitch up into a sad smile, and he turns to see John with his face control in silent rage. Lestrade sighs, maybe it would of been best if Mycroft had shown up. But Lestrade turns, and he sees the dazed look in John's eyes and wonders ... just what is going on in the mind of Doctor Watson.
Three years, Two Months Ago
The light was streaming through the curtains as the summer breeze danced through the opened windows. The room was warm, bloody warm at that, and John's lips tugged into a smile as he and Sherlock moved around the flat in nothing but there robes. John getting glimpse of those long legs, and flattering neck line whenever Sherlock adjusted himself on the couch. John's smile and rosy red cheeks would be hidden behind the news paper, those three little words sitting on his tongue, ready to pounce.
Then his courage soared as Sherlock got to his feet and moved to wards him, curly hair stuck to his forehead. John swallowed and he watched as the man leaned down to study John's face, and John raised and curious brow, his face blank of emotions as he waited for the consulting detective to weed him out and figure it out in the second of time they were this close.
Oh so close, and John's eyes fluttered shut and he waited, waited for the reject or the acceptance and yet, his heart fluttered more as Sherlock's sweaty hand pressed against his even more sweaty forehead, and his heart beat increased. John's eyes opened wide and he took in a steady breath, and sighed, moving past Sherlock, his heart twisting as he steadily moved to wards the bedrooms. "John?" Sherlock's voice laid in the back of his mind John's mind shouted a 'Ha! Told you, so.' to his heart which shouted back a swift 'He cared enough to see if he was ill!'
And John slammed the bathroom door shut, locking the door and turning on the shower, slipping off the bathrobe and stepping in. Only then did he lift his head and meet the cold drops as he sobbed openly to the shower curtain. Soft cries of pain and of sorrow as he witness his whole life crashing and burning all because one man could not love anything more than himself and his work.
John's eyes had begun to water again as Lestrade helped the man out the door to wards his parked car, to wards the escape, to wards the better life. The car was feet away, but it seemed more like meters away and Lestrade's comforting and supporting arm was like acid to John as the man stopped his steps and turned back to the building before him. The burned marks from the explosions, the tattered curtains and the old, now disconnected camera all memories of good times and John couldn't bare to look away.
He saw him, the faded memory of better times standing in the window looking down at him. A smile - that smile reserved for John alone, on his face as he closed the curtain. John shouted, eyes wide as he screamed Sherlock's name once more before being placed into the back seat of the police car. Lestrade's uncover car. John thrashed for a moment longer and soon the door is closed on him and he is forced to look up at the flat through tinted glass, his heart beating out of control as Lestrade climbs in the front, looking back at John and whispering.
"One Miracle John, just don't give up hope." and John knew the man was only trying to ease the pain before the shock came.
SPACER P.O.V CHANGE
The windows were opened, the front door open and the stairs creaking. His mind set out to seeing if a crime was committed, but his senses tingled with some smell that smelt close to death. The man in the door way stood with his hood up, jumper with the words printed neatly across the front 'London' and his lips twitched upwards as he took the steps two at a time, and soon that slight smile fell as he stared at the state the flat was in. The man turned around in the middle, noting that everything - expect for the few minion decorations - had not changed.
He took note of the curtains torn and ripped, from a possible stray cat or from glass pieces. The smiley on the wall was graced with a few pieces of shattered bleaker glass the man noted and the floor held the old cane and dusty gun. The man lifted the gun open and opened the chamber to see that all the rounds remained, not a single had been fired. He however noticed how it seemed to have a slight impression of fingers in the worn leather that surrounded the handle - as if it had lived most of it's live in the hand of a man.
The man pushed back his hood and curly hair stood at attention, striking blue eyes shifting over each piece of the flat living space and worry filled those eyes - human emotions, pity him would someone for the fact that his worry for directed at a man who had taken every part of his being to protect him, Sherlock Holmes. Once upon a time, Sherlock would of never of believed a man or woman who told him this pain in his chest was able to happen, but now he felt it and he knew that somewhere - despite his proclaims of being inhuman - that he was human, he was a living breathing example of what humankind was, and what it was to become.
"Lestrade, I thought you took John- SHERLOCK!" The elderly woman shouted, her eyes wide as she stared at the man she had been told had died. Her eyes so wide, and her hand pressed firmly against those thin lips as she watched the man turn to meet her eyes. Both stared for a moment, before the oldest eyes closed and her body gave way, and Sherlock rushed to aid her. Damn these emotions, damn Molly and Mycroft for thinking 'now' was the best time to return to 221b Baker Street. Damn the world. And yet, his mind turned as he picked the elderly woman up and headed for the couch.
Three hours ago
The man stood with his head up, his eyes calculating every movement his brother made - how the man even knew he was alive, was a mystery all it's self - well until Molly Cooper walked through the door. Her hair was long, red still, but her smile was faded some what and her belly plump with life. She graced the room and with steady footing she crossed the room and stood beside the 'British Government' himself.
The man sitting in the chair stared for a moment, trying to figure out the connect, when his eyes did grace the stomach of Molly Cooper and he pondered on the father for a brief moment. "I see. When was one going to tell me of the happy announcement." The man dragged out, remembering one month after he and John had been living together - how the first conversation between Mycroft Holmes and John Watson had gone - the humour.
"Once your alive again, Sherlock. Now your here because in you will return to Baker Street and you life." Mycroft spoke, and the man called Sherlock raised and eyebrow - having gotten comfortable with the life he lead. Observing John from a far. "You will set things right Sherlock Holmes. You've left the man in quite a mess!" Molly said, startling Sherlock with a fierce look. "You should see him, Sherlock. Right mess he is, drinking himself away in that building." Molly snapped, and Sherlock deduced the pregnancy hormones were the cause.
"And poor Mrs. Hudson, having to deal with his temper. You know she loves the man like her son, and she's to frighten to do anything expect phone me up, or Lestrade and bring him down to detox!" Molly said, breath panting and Sherlock frowned deeply, taking in her appearance once more before turning to Mycroft. "Just do it Sherlock. The 'web' is gone, your 'fans' saw to it." Sherlock winced, his eyes furrowing as he tried to wonder just how much those men and women, boys and girls had done, before looking at Mycroft and then Molly.
"And I can go home... to John?"
He stared down at the woman on the couch, before slipping from the room pulling his hood up and moving out of the building entirely. Sherlock slide the list of contacts on his phone until he made it to Watson. He paused, looking at the phone and pondered on what to do, and then he had it. [Still alive. Dinner? -SH.] His lips curled into a smile as he stared at the phone waiting for a response, however the smile began to fade and he began to walk. His speed was unusually paced, making it more of a speed-walk or light jog rather then walk.
His heart beat was speeding and his palms sweaty. But his head was running with possible easy ways to get to Scotland Yard. Lips twisting up into a twisted smile he dodged left and across the street, making it before the rush of a car left hot wind tickling his back side. His head cocked slightly as he dodged the homeless man, twirled his body as he dodged the trash can, and propelled himself over the fence. His feet catching him as he landed and took a look at his surroundings.
Three Years Ago
His body propelled him over the metal fence, handcuffs holding his left wrist to John's right. However the sudden pull made him turn and hit the fence, coming face to face with John Watson. Blocked by bars and Sherlock's brows furrowed, as he realised just how close the to were - and yet, how far apart the two bars kept him. Sherlock's mind was blank as John's mouth moved and the words that spilled from it fell on deaf ears - but the message was clear and Sherlock helped John over the fence, wondering just what was going to happen if John got caught and was asserted for hiding a criminal.
The plan was forming and Sherlock started to run as the thought bursting to life in his mind. John had risked, had saved and would give his own for Sherlock and Sherlock, oh Sherlock saw it now. He would give his own, his freedom, and his last dying breath to the wonderful, fantastic and beautiful man handcuffed to him. 'If any human emotion would haunt him in his after life,' Sherlock thought, 'let it be this thing I hold for this man.' As they came to a stop in front of the bus.
Sherlock's eyes widen as he ran, his breath rate up and his blood pressure rising as he dodged down the last alley-way and come face to face with the building he had been searching for. Bidding a homeless gent a 'good morning' he moved forward, holding the hood up to hide his face thoroughly. His lips turned into a sad frown. His thoughts and heart beating as one as they slowly took in every inch of the building, spotting Lestrade's car, Donovan's and even Anderson's.
His head shook and he took a step out of the alley and into the rising sun. His eyes wide and curious as he jogged across the street and to wards the building. His heart stopped dead as the door swung open and out came a slightly darker skinned woman, with shoulder length curly hair. Her eyes wide and sadden, but her face neutral. It wasn't until she looked up and Sherlock's eyes locked with hers, that she seemed startled, scared and her lips parted to scream. Sherlock placed a gentle finger to his lips, and inches up the stairs.
"Y-You're supposed to be dead, Holmes." She snapped under her breath, eyes narrowing as the sudden realization that the man must of faked his death, came to mind. Sherlock however saw the hopes that she may of just seen an illusion or ghost. "I just want to see John." Sherlock stated, his voice low, and if Donovan didn't know better, worried. The woman raised an eyebrow, and moved back to the building, opening the door and allowing the man to follow her.
"He's in Lestrade's office. You know the way." She stated, waving him off as she bracken for Anderson to follower her. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Missing wedding ring, cleaned up. Seems he ended it with his wife.' Sherlock noted and held a bit of grief that he now could not pick and pull at Anderson any more about his wife. Sadden, but the Sherlock's mission laid just on the other side of the room. His hood up, and his eyes forced, the man moved, feet carrying him as he made his way to wards life, to wards what he knew was what his tomorrow needed. His feet brought him to the door and as his hand pressed against it, he stopped.
The Fall
'I am on the side of the angels.' The sentence ran through his mind as he stared down at the people below. He had so much to say to the man on the other line, but his voice could not speak the words he had. His eyes closed for a moment and his hand reached out. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." He said, watching John adjust his footing and reach up with his own hand. Men and women gathering people. His whole body shook with a sense of remorse and was that fear?
Sherlock took a step closer to the edge, his heart beating faster, and his mind saying everything possible as his voice carried on two words. "Goodbye, John." Then phone discarded in seconds, and the fall in mere seconds after, he could hear the rush of the wind against his ears, the popping and the shouts and screams of those who saw the body, but the voice over them all screamed his name. His name filled with such panic and worry, that Sherlock sucked those emotions in, his eyes closed as his legs and arm moved against the arm, and soon the cold cement smacked against his body.
He lay there a few moments, the pain attacking each muscle, the blood seeping from his head and the crowd hovering over him. 'Move! He's my FRIEND!' John. Good, loyal, loving, caring John. Foolish John, soldier John, Doctor John. Sherlock felt the darkness eating at his mind, as he settled into it's cold embrace, My John.
SPACER. P.O.V CHANGE
The office had changed since his last visit, John noted. Lestrade had put up pictures of his wife, and of his one year old son. John noted the boy held many features of Lestrade expect the grey eyes - oh no the boy had the most startling green eyes. John's eyes wandered over to the collection of books, and then to the laptop on Lestrade's desk. "Busy yourself." Lestrade said softly, handing the man his laptop and returning to the paper work that had been on his desk.
John gave a wince as he stared at the laptop screen and then his hands gripped the sides of the chair in sheer panic. The Detective Inspector had his blog open, and John felt years of pressure come down on him in that moment. His breath increased and his eyes shut tightly for the brief moment. His whole body wanted to collapse and not move from the spot. That was, until his eyes trained on the followers. The number had increased, double in size and as he moved through the blog he attended to his last post, his heart beating after as he saw the sheer amount of people posting.
People telling him of how they had written, 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' posters, shirts. Even the few who had made banners proclaiming 'Moriarty was Real!' John's lips slowly twisted upwards into a half smile as he scrolled through the comments, coming to a few where he would laugh, and then his eyes trained on one posted not long after he had stopped checking, and he blinked away tears. He pushed the laptop away and looked off into the distance, finding the wall more entertaining then the laptop and the person in the room.
He heard the door swing open, and Lestrade's voice of 'Bloody Hell!' made him turn around to see the intruder, and he almost wish he hadn't. The curly haired man with striking blue eyes stood at the door, eyes deducing the room and suddenly landing on him. John's own blue eyes struggled to grasp if this was the real Sherlock Holmes, or if it was just another illusion, another illusion that would sentence him to death, death of loneliness and death.
"John." That voice, John's eyes widen, and he could just hear the distant sound of Lestrade commenting on 'how someone must of spiked his coffee'. "Sssherlock." John whispered, his 's' still drawn out as he got to his feet, hand resting on the chair's back, and looking on at the taller man with a leaner frame. "Don't leave me." He whispered, repeating the words that he had said to every illusion, and he waited for it to leave, like every illusion before this one.
"Never." The 'illusion' whispered and John's eyes widen, his heart bursting forward, rushing and shouting joyous songs and leaping - shouting at the brain that it had been right after all! John's legs moved on their own record and he was stumbling into the arms of non-other then Sherlock Holmes, his body shaking with sobs and clenching the consulting detective's jumper. "You can't be real! I saw your body, you were.. this can't be." Lestrade's voice echoed the room, his eyes wide, and yet John ignored him, his eyes followed up to the curly haired man.
"How could you do that Sherlock! You bloody idiot! I thought you were dead! DEAD! For three years, three long years! You know what that did to us! To the world, to your brother, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, ME!" John snipped and reeled back, swinging a punch at the 'dead-man-walking's chest. Sherlock's eyes were calculating as Lestrade seemed to move out of his office, paler then a ghost as he realized what had just happened was true. "You know how many days I waited for you! Just to prove that you had ONE MORE BLOODY MIRACLE!" John continued to shout abuse at Sherlock.
"I was so close! So bloody close to it all Sherlock, I just couldn't handle it! I couldn't handle a life with out you!" John shouted more, a fist connecting with Sherlock's chest again, "I missed you... I missed you and your experiments, your cases, the way you can read people. Gods Sherlock, I missed you." John said, voice trailing off as his body began to shake again from the sobs. "I love you, you high-functioning socio-path." John whispered as his face connected with the man's chest. He barely noticed arms wrapping around his waist as the other man held him closer.
"Hush John, you screaming will surely have people talking." Sherlock mused, and John's sob became a strangled laughter as the man tried to hold it back. "I still do not understand those pitiful emotions. I prefer life partners." Sherlock mused, as he held the ex-army doctor to his body, feeling the man tense and suddenly, blue eyes meet blue. Confusion, realization and then an emotion Sherlock himself could not make out flashed across the man's eyes. "Gods Sherlock. That's even more cheesy then proclaiming your love for someone." John said, that mischievousness look in his eyes.
"Ready to go home?" Sherlock asked, his eyes brows knitted together as he watched the other's expression. John however, raised an single eyes brow in question. "Mrs. Hudson will have a fit." John stated with slight panic, and Sherlock's lips twisted upwards into a smile as he leaned down to the man's face pressing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Shall we than?" Sherlock asked, his eyes deducing the answer right before John could say it.
"Yes."