This is my first Sherlock Fanfiction, so I'm really sorry if it's quite bad.
Read and Review, it always helps me! Thank you!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this fic except the words.
John H. Watson was just a friend. And, being just a friend, he shouldn't remember everything that he has.
2 years, 4 months, 1 week and 5 days. Being just a friend, he probably shouldn't have remembered that. There's a lot that he shouldn't remember, a few that he should.
What he should, but didn't want to remember, was the end. It was the end of the greatest Consulting Detective, the only Consulting Detective, the world had ever seen. He was brash and annoying and living with him with a nightmare full of mystery, frustration and adrenaline. It was an adventure.
John hated that one memory people knew he'd always remember, believed that it would be the only thing he would remember, was of him flying. John never wanted to use the word falling, or jumping. It just didn't seem right. Sherlock would never kill himself; he was just too brilliant for that. So no, Sherlock didn't jump, or fall, he flew. For a second, Sherlock flew. He got to feel something John has been wanting to feel for so long.
John can remember pain and anger, and horror, complete terror washing through him. He remembers seeing his one true friend, whether the detective would admit it or not, flying. It was but for a second, of course. Humans couldn't fly. But oh, how John wished they could. Miracles. That's what he wanted.
If humans couldn't fly, and they couldn't produce miracles, then there was no hope, was there?
But there were those few memories that should have faded by now. Like the way that Sherlock jumped with glee when a particular murder would come through. Or how he'd shoot the wall, that damn yellow smile, when he was bored. Or how he never ate, and at times it took threats of bodily harm to make him. Sometimes, when something was puzzling, John would remember that crease in Sherlock's brow, that rare puzzled, confused yet excited look. Or maybe, John thought, those rare times he caught Sherlock sleeping on the couch. Not thinking, but actually thinking, and he looked so calm and relaxed. Or how his eyes would change colour, from that bright blue, to an almost steel grey, depending on the time of day. John could remember the way that he'd play violin; he was most beautiful then, John thinks, when he'd play like no one was watching.
No…no, these things should have faded after two years. John thinks that maybe, just maybe, they'd never fade. Sherlock had always found a way to be something more, anything more, and maybe this was his way of being more than mortal. Being more than a forgotten memory.
It's too bad, really, that he wouldn't be for much longer.
John's life had been dull. It was the same routine, day in and day out. It was painful and boring, and yet Sherlock cured that. All of a sudden, the only pain he had was a pain in the neck that came in the form of sleepless nights and a high-functioning sociopath. He still thinks that was one of the best lines to come from his mouth.
That and the stolen ash tray. It sits on the mantle.
"Be careful. One day there'll be a body, and he'll be the one to put it there." Well, she was right. John should've been more careful, but he wasn't. And Sherlock did put a body there, only it was his own.
It was funny to think that John had faced so much death and pain and horror in his life, lost so many comrades, but one. Just one had pushed him over the edge.
The sight of Sherlock flying had haunted his nightmares, plagued the day, and John usually found that he came up onto the roof often since. If only to look down on the street, look at where his one friend had landed, and wonder what Sherlock had been thinking.
He had never been one to give up, John knew that. No doubt Sherlock had faced some problems in his life, which was obvious in the way that he pushed people away. Sociopath? Hardly. Maybe closer than most people, but no, no he wasn't. If that was the case, he would never have let John in.
Sherlock didn't lie, not often anyway. But he did and John didn't know why. I suppose that was the worst. The not knowing. It was worse than the truth, John had found, as your imagination was so merciless.
That's why he was, again, on the roof. His feet were half hanging over, phone in hand and staring down at the people on the ground. He found it odd that none looked up. I suppose that was another age thing. Those that look to the sky, that look around, are looking for something more. Those that stare forward—adults usually—have already given up. They don't look to the skies because, by now, they realise that humans can't fly. They realise that their mundane lives will never be as good, and so they gave the dreams up to secure their sanity.
John had lived his dreams during that time with Sherlock. For a short time he lived with complete brilliance, and that is all that mattered.
John smirked sadistically. Couple. Everyone had thought that they were perfect for each other, which was odd because it was true. An army doctor who lived for danger and a consulting detective that seemed to bring it. They were a match made in heaven. But, John supposed, every great romance novel has a tragedy to overcome.
Funny to think that theirs is death.
A phone beeped, it was unused, had been for three years, and was left in an empty flat with a smiley face painted on the wall. 1095. A text for every day.
Goodbye, Mr Holmes. This is my note.
3 years exactly, from the day that John's true nightmare began, John smiled for a brief moment because he finally knew what it felt like to fly.