Let Me Give You My Life
A/N: This story was inspired by 'Take Me To Church' by Hozier. After watching the music video, this story came into my head and wouldn't get out until I wrote it all down. If you have the time, go watch the video on YouTube. You'll see what I mean.
I own nothing…
Sherlock pushed the shovel into the ground, making a small hole. The dirt was set aside carefully so he could fill the hole back in quickly. He set the shovel down and picked up the small chest. He had wrapped it in a chain and locked it earlier. The dark haired man set the chest in the hole, and began to cover it with dirt.
They wouldn't find it here. Only he would.
John walked down the streets, making sure to keep his head down. As he passed by the church, it felt like a thousand pairs of eyes were staring at him. He didn't look up, just kept pace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock walking on the other side of the street. The doctor gave him a quick smile as they both headed for the forest. They walked past some train tracks, over to the lake. This was their secret spot. Nobody else knew about this place.
Sherlock pulled out a cigarette, offering one to John, who declined. The taller man shrugged, before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a lighter. He lit his cigarette, inhaling the smoke. They stayed silent for a while, just watching the scenery. As he got bored, Sherlock stubbed his cigarette out. He turned to face John, who had done the same as well.
Sherlock placed a hand on the side of John's face, before leaning down to kiss him. John tilted his head and leaned into the other man, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. He pulled the taller man closer, entangling his finger in his dark curly hair. There was no space between them. When they pulled away several minutes later, both had smiles on their faces. John slipped his hand into Sherlock's, feeling quite content. They went back to the water's edge, skipping rocks and enjoying in each other's presence until the sun went down.
Moriarty observed the men with a fierce glare. He knew their no so well kept secret. They were considered sin in the views of the church rule. They shouldn't exist. He threw his cigarette to the ground, stomping on it with his heel. He would take them out. All he needed was a little bit of assistance.
The Sunday's were passing by in a blur. Sherlock sometimes snuck out of town, bringing back trinkets for John. He knew that their time together was running out.
Sherlock placed a leather chain with a small circle yin-yang charm around John's neck. The blonde smiled as it settled into place, admiring his new gift. He stood up on his tip toes, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's mouth. The consulting detective returned it, but without the passion of previous kisses. John couldn't know what wa going to happen soon. He couldn't reveal too much. He pulled away suddenly, feeling the pressure of everything. While John looked at him with a confused expression, Sherlock reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small silver key and a piece of paper that was well worn from being folded and unfolded again. The consulting detective handed the objects to the shorter man, telling him to read the paper when the time was right. John raised an eyebrow, but stuck the paper and key in his pocket anyway. Sherlock gave his lover a reassuring smile, leaning down to kiss him again.
Moriarty and his followers stood outside of Sherlock's house. Hoods covered their heads and rags covered their faces up to their eyes. Jim held a bottle full of kerosene, smirking when he was handed a lighter. He lit the rag inside the bottle, throwing it through a window. They then stormed the house, dragging Sherlock out with them. The consulting detective was tossed to the ground, scraping his hands in the process. He tried to fight back, but five men started punching him, over-powering Sherlock. He was too weak to move as those same men dragged him by his wrists toward the woods. One had a knife pressed to his chest, occasionally cutting into his skin as they made their way deeper into the forest. He screamed for someone to come help him, but no one could hear. Or if they did, they didn't care.
They stopped in the middle of a clearing, as far as Sherlock could tell. He groaned softly as they roughly placed him by a bonfire. He could feel the heat on the right side of his face, and his vision turned blurry for a second. One of Moriarty's followers bent down in front of him, talking softly but harshly. He screamed at them too, but the one with the knife just pressed it to his throat this time.
When he didn't answer their questions, Moriarty held up a picture of Sherlock and John, dangling it precariously over the flames. It was a promise that John was going to be their next victim when they caught him. Sherlock tried his level best to stop them, but the picture fluttered out of the villain's hand into the fire. The consulting detective went slack at that moment, the fight gone out of him.
The last thing he saw was a steel-toed boot, aimed directly for his face.
John ran toward Sherlock's house as fast as he could. When he saw it, he gasped, almost falling to his knees. The house was burned to the ground. He was too late. The doctor swallowed roughly, feeling the tears well up in his eyes. He blinked them back, pushing himself to go closer to the wreckage. There was no sign of life. John swore colorfully, making a dash for the woods. He ran blindly, just keeping enough sanity so he didn't crash into a tree. Further in, John could see a light up ahead, burning bright in the darkness. He picked up his pace, nearly flying now. When he finally made it to the cleaning and the source of the light, he was breathing heavily. What he saw then, changed his life beyond repair.
In front of the bonfire were several figures, and they were kicking another shadow laying on the cold hard ground. A tall shadow. With dark curly hair… Good God.
Sherlock.
John's hands flew up to his mouth of their own accord. It was gut-wrenching to just stand by and watch his love be hurt by those men, but he was frozen in place. After a few shaken moments, John remembered the piece of paper that Sherlock had given him. The doctor reached into his pocket, retrieving the paper and key. Shifting the key to his left hand, John opened the paper and found two words written on the page.
'Secret place.'
John turned to go, glancing one last time over his shoulder to the scene behind him. He promised himself and Sherlock that he would be back after the men had gone. The doctor was lost in thought as he made his way down the the familiar route to their secret place.
When he got to the lake, John looked around. He had over-looked the spot several times before he noticed the newly packed dirt over by one of the boulders. John walked over, noticing a small spade sticking out of the ground. He dug into the dirt, uncovering a small chest. Hands shaking madly, he stuck the key into the lock, opening up the chest. John reached in, finding a photo and a letter addressed to him. The picture was of him and Sherlock a few weeks ago at the consulting detective's house. Neither of the men had been looking at the camera at the time. They were staring at each other, a strong look of love in their eyes. They had been so happy then.
Placing the picture back in the chest, John opened the letter. Tears sprung to his eyes for the second time that day when he began to read.
'John,
If you're reading this, then I am dead. I want to tell you that I love you so damn much. I wish we could have spent our lives together like we discussed. I wanted to take you to the church, so we could get married. I suppose that all I can give you now is this ring.
I'm so glad I met you John. You always made me want to be a better man.
I love you. Always.
— Sherlock'
John silently sobbed, tears flowing freely down his face. He pressed the note to his heart, taking the ring out of the envelope. He slipped it on to the ring finger of his left hand, letting out a choked sob when it fit perfectly.
A little bit later he steeled his nerves, preparing himself to go back to the clearing. When he returned, all the men were gone. The bonfire burned still, but just barely. John's breathing became ragged as he approached Sherlock's unmoving body. He knelt down, feeling for a pulse.
Nothing.
John's jaw trembled as he reached underneath his lover's body, shocked at how light he was. He carried Sherlock out of the woods to the consulting detective's backyard. He went around to the front, remembering that there was a blanket in the car in the driveway. John went up to the car, hoping that it was unlocked. It was, so John grabbed the blanket out of the back seat. He made his way back slowly, like a man condemned. The doctor wrapped Sherlock's body with the blanket, kissing his forehead before covering the taller man's face. With the nearby fallen shovel, John began to dig. Once the grave was made, John picked Sherlock back up and placed him inside. He felt totally numb as he started to fill the hole with dirt.
Soon enough, Sherlock was buried. John patted the ground one last time with the back of the shovel. Nearby there were some daffodils growing, so John picked them and laid them on the grave. He rolled a small boulder over to the site, to function as a marker. John pulled his pocket knife out of his back pocket, carving Sherlock's last epitaph in stone. It read:
Sherlock Holmes
A Great Man
A/N: What did you think? Please let me know. You can either contact me through a review to this story or drop a PM in my inbox. As a writer I thrive on feedback, so please review regardless. It would be greatly appreciated!
~ ValkyrieDefender