Lead, Kindly Light
By: Me
Lead, kindly Light, amid th'encircling gloom
Lead thou me on…
The night is dark, and I am far from home
Lead thou me on…
Sherlock flipped up his collar and dug his gloved hands into his pockets, shivering despite his large coat. All around him, a light misting of rain swathed the world in moist gray, muting sounds and turning lights hazy. Nothing seemed real.
This horrid existence frustrated Sherlock. Everything was surreal; nothing mattered anymore. Even his mission didn't seem to hold much precedence. Yes, when he'd first started out, it had seemed a brilliant idea to use his "death" to destroy Moriarty's web. Dead was a state that was really quite useful…except…
Except.
When he'd decided, he hadn't considered what it would cost him. He hadn't considered what he would lose in return for this chance. And now, it was killing him.
Every day, just like the last. Every day on edge, with nothing to gain and everything to lose, when it should have been the other way around. Nothing changed—in that everything had changed.
He almost believed that his death had not been fake. Because for all he cared, he could be dead right now, and he wouldn't have known the difference.
John sat motionless in his armchair long after the fire died, staring at the empty chair across from him without really seeing it. Behind the curtained window, the sun set, casting the room first in ever-darkening shades of gray, and finally in a heavy, dirty blanket of shadows that wasn't quite pitch black. But John didn't get up to turn on a lamp, because it didn't matter.
xxx
Nothing mattered—least of all this new "reality". That's what everyone kept telling him—that this, here and now, was the truth, and that the past wasn't. That this was reality. But it couldn't be reality—how could it, when nothing seemed real?
But then, if this wasn't reality, and the past wasn't reality (because despite his friends' doubts, he did know how to distinguish past from present) then what was?
Was anything really real?
He knew the answer to that—well, his brain did. It told him, over and over, that the truth was that his flatmate was really dead. This surreal grief was really twisting at his heart. And it was his job to get up, turn on a lamp, and suck it up. He had to keep up with the new reality.
Why didn't his heart agree?
Why couldn't his heart just let him get on with life? Instead, it kept refusing to believe. It kept telling him to wait. That he'd see his friend again. He almost wanted to believe it—but cold logic and his blasted brain kept getting in the way, reminding him not to make two cups of tea in the morning, and not to text Sherlock to ask if they needed milk, and not to get up in the middle of the night to make sure Sherlock had gotten to bed. He was reminded that there wasn't anyone to drink the second cup, and that Sherlock wasn't alive to check the fridge, and that Sherlock hadn't had any experiments to keep him up that night—because there were no more experiments.
The world, which had been so full of color, was gray. The flat, which had echoed so with excitement, was silent. John, who had felt so alive, felt as dead as his friend.
And nothing was real.
Keep thou my feet
I do not ask to see
The distant scene—
One step enough for me.
Sherlock slunk through the streets, shoulders hunched and head bowed. His walk held none of his usual pride and pomp—he didn't feel up to it.
He wondered where John was. Was John at the flat? Was he at Sarah's? How was he taking this?
What would he think if he saw Sherlock now?
The thought brought Sherlock up short.
He, Sherlock Holmes, was slinking through a crowd, shoulders hunched, head bowed.
Would John even recognize him?
No, he wouldn't—because this wasn't Sherlock.
Sherlock stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, allowing the crowd to part around him like a river around a stone as he came to the sudden but not entirely surprising realization.
He had lost himself. He…he wasn't Sherlock anymore. This…this broken, wounded man wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He was less than a man, with an existence that was less than complete.
The thought made him square his shoulders and raise his head. What had happened to him? How could he fall so far? How could he look around this world and think that nothing mattered? How could he? How could he let himself?
He set off again, this time with determination putting the old spring in his step. Everything mattered, and he knew that. Right now, that everything was his mission.
Remember, he told himself. Remember why you're doing it.
Don't think about the cost.
Sherlock's silvery eyes darted around the street, taking in everything and everyone. He could still feel that horrid darkness—that shawl of shadows trying to trap him. No light had freed him. But he had remembered—remembered to fight to keep breathing. Remembered that he couldn't let the despair smother him.
For now, he'd let his mission drive him. Don't think about the future, Sherlock. Take the world day by day and do what you have to.
And someday, you'll realize that the night is over and the sun has risen.
The dawn isn't within sight yet. But trust that it's there—and it'll come.
xxx
John could see the helplessness in Mrs. Hudson's eyes and the gloomy pity in Sarah's. He could see that Lestrade was in despair of ever helping him, and Molly was avoiding him altogether. They all saw him for what he was—a lost cause.
He lay awake at night, feeling vaguely bothered by that.
But not enough to try and change it.
Maybe he was a lost cause, he caught himself thinking one night.
Maybe that's all he'd ever been. And maybe it was all he ever would be…
Finally, one morning, he looked in the mirror and realized something. He saw his blue eyes, touched permanently with misery, and the dark circles under those eyes, and the slump of his shoulders. He felt his hand quiver and his leg ache…and realized that he'd had enough.
"Stupid!" he fumed, stalking out of the bathroom.
This was beyond unforgivable—this was outright foolish! A lost cause? A lost cause? Had he really thought that?
John had seen men die before—good men, too. Maybe none of them had been his best friend, his live-in sociopath, but that didn't change the fact that he had no excuse! Dr. John H. Watson was no weak old fool who broke every time death reared its ugly head. He was a soldier, for goodness' sake!
He banged cupboards and clattered utensils around while preparing his morning tea, feeling immense satisfaction in the jarring yet familiar sounds. They sounded real…and by the powers that be, so would everything else, from now on.
Maybe he still needed his cane, and maybe he would still grieve—no, of course he would still grieve—but he was not going to mope around and let his life fall to pieces.
He remembered, what felt like a long time ago, something Sherlock had said to him:
"I meant what I said before, John. I don't have friends. I've just got one."
When John had looked in the mirror that morning, who had he seen to make him so angry and determined?
It wasn't who he had seen—but who he hadn't seen. He had not seen the man Sherlock had once deemed worthy to be his friend. If Sherlock saw him now, what would he think? Would he still look at John and think, "This is the one man who I can call friend"?
No. The man in the mirror had not been that friend. He had been a ghost—a specter. A mere shadow of a broken soldier.
John's grip tightened on his teacup.
He had let his life go to waste…goodness, it was still going to waste.
He took a deep breath, set down the little cup, and closed his eyes, trying to lay everything out at face value.
Sherlock…was dead. He had to accept that before he could go anywhere else.
Sherlock was dead. Okay, he'd thought it. Better not to dwell on it too completely now…
John sighed and opened his eyes. He didn't believe it—he still didn't believe it.
But that didn't mean he had to mope around the flat.
In a flash he was out of his seat, grabbing his jacket, and out the door.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out to Tesco's to get some milk! Do you need anything?"
Milk. Beans. Tea. Little things that needed fetching. That's what he would focus on now—the little moments, little jobs. Then, maybe later, he'd realize that all of these little moments he's gotten through had turned into one full day. And one full day would become two. And then maybe he'd get through the week.
One day at a time. That's all it would take. One day at a time…
I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that thou
Shouldst lead me on…
I loved to choose, and see my path, but now
Lead thou me on!
Had Sherlock ever truly known hardship before?
Oh sure, his life had been fraught with peril—more so than that of most normal people, to be sure. But it wasn't the same. After all, the danger was what had made it worth it—John could attest to that.
Now, looking back, he didn't know how he ever could've felt sorry for himself. Those days of boredom—so what? John had been there to snatch the gun out of his hand. Those brushes with death—so what? John had always been at his heel, making him feel safe even when he really, really wasn't. Everything he had thought hard—hadn't been, because John had been there.
The true hardship, he saw now, was neither boredom nor danger.
It was regret.
All those years, he'd swept through life, strong in his independence and his bloody pride. It was almost sickening to look back and remember what he had been—even more so since he wanted it back. He wanted to be that man again. The one who…how had John put it?
"Sherlock can see through anything and anyone, but what's truly amazing is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things."
Ignorant indeed. Had he taken offense to that? He had, hadn't he. Angrily told John to stop forcing his opinions on the world. How could he have done that?
Even so, he wished it were still true. He wished he was still that brilliant, oblivious man. Maybe John had meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way after all…
Sherlock sighed and ran his pale fingers through his dark curls. Here we go again, he thought in resignation. It was amazing how many times he caught himself bitterly looking back after such a determined resolution to focus only on the present.
Don't think about it, he told himself resolutely.
Don't think about what you were, or what you are now, or what you can be someday.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and steepled his fingers. He needed to concentrate. He looked inside himself for something else, something different—a light he'd discovered only recently. When he found it hard to keep going, he turned to it, allowed it to swallow him, make him forget everything. He allowed that warm feeling to lead him, guide his steps, knowing innately that it would lead him home eventually. And, safe in that knowledge, he could live each day.
He had so rarely ever had to follow his heart before, that he almost didn't know what to call it.
xxx
John couldn't stand the thought of the future. Days passed, and he could tolerate them for the most part, focusing only on the here and now…but every time he even considered what would come next…it was like he was drowning.
It was as if the future had died with Sherlock, and though common sense suggested that time still went on, John's heart was telling him that it wasn't. Every moment was the same…every day had to be the same…because even the notion that there would be a tomorrow was overwhelming.
It helped to look back instead of forward. He remembered how…how sure they both had been. Their lives had been fraught with uncertainty, mystery, danger, and excitement, and still they had both known what to expect. John had not had the certainty most people relied on—the knowledge that he knew exactly what would be happening that night, the next morning, the next day—but at the same time he had—because he knew that whatever adventures the next case would bring, he would be standing, sitting, dashing, etcetera, at the side of Sherlock Holmes. That had been his constant.
He'd known his path. Without truly knowing, he'd been certain. Now, though…now everything was indistinct, blurry, undecided.
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Don't think about the future, John. He could distance himself. He knew by now how to close down his mind and just let the light guide him. It had led him through many a hard day, and many a painful memory. He never tried to see where it would take him, and for the first time in his life, he didn't worry about where tomorrow would find him.
He just let his heart lead the way.
I loved the garish
Day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will…
Remember not past years.
The past was the past and what had been was out of reach, but both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes found it within themselves to grasp that light, that lifeline, and let it lead them on. Living neither in the past nor the future, they struggled on, taking it day…by…day.
Do not dwell on the halcyon days.
Do not look to the coming years.
Have faith.
So long thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent till…
It worked. Blindly, Sherlock let his heart lead him, let each day determine the next without planning ahead. Some might have called it a fool's strategy to have no plan at all, but it protected Sherlock, protected his sanity.
Now…now he finally let go of that glowing thread, leading him on. He didn't need it anymore, after all. He was about to be reunited with his conductor of light.
The night is gone.
Tentatively Sherlock grasped the brass knocker, letting his mind wander as it hadn't in several months. He noted all the little aspects of the door—the worn appearance of the knocker—used often, a lot of visitors since last I saw it, more so than before—the scratches along the bottom third—kicked a lot, possibly to open it, possibly out of frustration?—the fact that it wasn't as varnished as usual—Mrs. Hudson hasn't cleaned it recently. Odd.
He knocked.
There was a moment of long silence, and the muffled sound of a voice. Sherlock couldn't make out the words, but he knew it was John, and he could decipher Mrs. Hudson's reply: "No, dear, I've got it—I'm closer."
He had to grip the doorframe to keep himself steady. He hadn't heard her voice in so long, and now that he was letting himself remember…
Crud. Whose idea was it to come back? Now he wasn't sure he could stand it. He briefly wondered if he would be able to get away with just leaving, right now, before she opened the door—
Too late.
The door swung open, and Mrs. Hudson stepped forward with a ready smile starting to appear, as she prepared to welcome a guest—and froze at the sight of…him.
He found himself cataloguing every detail—the tremble in her hand, the slight widening of her eyes, her startled gasp.
Then she closed the door.
Sherlock blinked and backed up in surprise.
Behind the door, John's voice mumbled indistinguishably again.
"John? John, dear, I think it's finally happened."
An indistinct reply. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he realized what was going on.
"You're not hallucinating, Mrs. Hudson!" he called through the door. On the other side of the portal, John's voice cut off abruptly. Silence.
Sherlock groaned to himself. This was not how he had imagined it. He knocked again impatiently.
Tentatively, the handle turned and the door swung back an inch. "Who is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice a quivering whisper.
Sherlock couldn't stay annoyed in the face of the raw fear she was exhibiting. "You know who it is," he replied softly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle her.
He heard her take a deep, shuddering breath, and the door swung open.
Both Mrs. Hudson and John were standing in the hallway. Mrs. Hudson looked on the verge of tears, while John's expression was wary.
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice quavered, her eyes shining with tears yet to be shed. "Is it really you?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply—but before he could, Mrs. Hudson had surged forward, embracing him and sobbing into his coat. Stunned, Sherlock tentatively wrapped his arms around her and patted her back in an attempt to comfort her. Hearing a kind of choking sound from behind her, Sherlock looked up, into the eyes of John Watson.
John was staring, turned slightly away, expression guarded. Classic John, already on the defensive. Sherlock knew what was going through his head—he was denying the evidence provided him by his own eyes. And he had a right to—after all, he'd been told that Sherlock was dead. He'd seen the man die. So now, he was going through every possible explanation that would provide some clarification as to why a dead man was standing at the door.
Mrs. Hudson released Sherlock suddenly with the exclamation: "I'll go make some tea!"
And then she was gone, bustling back into the building.
Sherlock tried to summon a smile. "Tea. Solution to everything."
John, at least, tried to reply: "So I've…so I've heard."
His voice cracked anyway. He looked down—the first time he'd torn his gaze from the sight of his dead friend.
"John…it's really me, you know," Sherlock tried to assure him.
John let out a shaky gasp and Sherlock could almost swear at hearing something akin to a whimper—almost a repressed sob—escaping with the breath. "Do…Do I?" John asked, his voice shaking. "How…? How…oh God." He groaned and leaned heavily against the door. "I know I asked for—for a miracle but—" His voice cracked and disappeared, and he ran a shaking hand over his eyes, obviously trying to compose himself.
Sherlock stayed silent, allowing John to work it out for himself. He could see that John was on mental overload, and it was best not to intervene and make it worse.
John opened one eye, peering out from between his fingers, and, upon seeing Sherlock still standing there, gazing at him steadily, he finally dropped his hand and shook his head. "I don't believe it," he announced, looking Sherlock right in the eye.
Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction—the only outward sign of his alarm. "John—"
"No, I am—I am serious. I will not…I do not…I will not believe it."
To anyone else, John probably would have appeared firm and stubborn—the soldier in him—but Sherlock had known him too well to be fooled. John's gaze was steady, his mouth a fixed line, his hand curled in a fist. But Sherlock could see the distress in the set of his eyes, the barest quirk at the corners of his lips, and the sudden steadiness in his hand.
And he saw something else—rather, he recognized something else.
xxx
John had heard the knock at the door and gotten up immediately. Thank God, something to do! "I'll get it!" he had called, already at the top of the stairs.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson had had other ideas. "No dear, I've got it—I'm closer!" she called back to him as she made her way to the front door. Defeated, John had settled with waiting at the stop of the stairs, wanting to know who it was.
In the brief moment that the door was open before Mrs. Hudson had abruptly slammed it, John had had the impression of someone tall and dark, in a long cloak. Then the door was closed and John had been left blinking from the suddenly overwhelming feeling that he knew that figure. It was too familiar—too much déjà vu to ignore.
"Mrs. Hudson? Who was it?"
When the woman had turned to face him, her expression was so distressed, so scared, that John had immediately reached for his Browning—except it wasn't there. Right. He hadn't carried it for at least a couple months. Drat.
"John? John, dear, I think it's finally happened."
John's distress had risen at this, and he immediately began to descend the stairs. "What has? Mrs. Hudson, what's wro—"
"You're not hallucinating, Mrs. Hudson!" a voice had interrupted from the other side of the door.
John had frozen, eyes on the door. That voice…
Again came that demanding knock. Only then did John realize how familiar it was. Oh God.
When the door opened, though he was prepared, he almost fainted dead away.
And with the morn,
Those angel faces smile…
Which I have loved
Long since, and lost a-while…!
Now, John Watson stared into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes for the first time in what seemed like many lifetimes. He looked so real. Every inch of that face, John knew. It was almost as if time hadn't dared to change it. John leant against the door, trying to remain firm, to reason with himself…and yet…
Sherlock looked so distressed. Oh, yes, so anyone else looking at him would describe him as "unfazed"…but John knew him. When he had said "I won't believe it"…that little widening of the eyes…the tremble in his hand…
Could his imagination cook this up? Surely he couldn't imagine that look in Sherlock's eye. He couldn't imagine the hurt and alarm that John himself was causing the other man…
And then, the final straw.
"Oh…" Sherlock breathed, eyes narrowing with some revelation. "I see."
John caught his breath. That was familiar—too familiar. It was just so…Sherlock. It was his…his aha sound. His "Oh-that's-brilliant" sound. It was his "I've-figured-it-out" sound. How John had missed even that little, frustrating quirk.
Logic still screamed at John, but his heart said: "It's Sherlock. It has to be."
Sherlock reached out a hand and clasped John's shoulder. "John. You can let go of the light now."
John sucked in a startled breath and found himself averting his eyes. "How—how could you possibly have known—"
Sherlock smiled in understanding. "I don't know, John. I see."
John groaned. The evidence was piling up. Who else could this be?
"John. Please. Believe me."
John closed his eyes and breathed deeply and evenly, trying to get everything straight in his mind. He wanted so badly to believe. He…he did believe. In Sherlock Holmes. But did he believe he was alive? Goodness, how could he? He…what was he thinking?! Sherlock Holmes was dead! He'd…he'd seen him fall. The post-mortem had proved it.
Wait.
John opened his eyes and glared at Sherlock. "Molly was in on it, wasn't she."
Sherlock blinked, frowning quizzically. "What? Oh…yes. I suppose. Why is that important?"
John let out a frustrated sigh and rolled his eyes. "Yes, it's definitely you," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?"
In reply John shrugged off Sherlock's hand—and then stepped forward and hugged him, before this illusion-turned-not-illusion could disappear. "Welcome back, Sherlock."
He felt Sherlock tense at the sudden show of emotion, but he kept his grip firm. This…was real. It was real. Sherlock was real.
He let go of the light, realizing with amazement that he wouldn't need it anymore. Suddenly, the past was rosy and the future was bright.
He stepped back and looked up into the face of his dead flatmate. "Well, what are we waiting for?" he asked with a smile. "Mrs. Hudson's making tea."
The night is gone.
Sherlock was back.
Which, John thought suddenly, as he closed the door, left a lot of questions to be answered…
"You have got a lot of explaining to do, you know."
Sherlock, who'd been gazing around the hallway in awe, blinked as John snapped him out of his daze. "What? Oh, yes, I suppose so."
John rolled his eyes. "No, you don't 'suppose so'. Sit down right now and tell me the whole story. All of it. Right now."
Now it was Sherlock's turn to give his friend a long suffering look. "What, I don't even get time to drink my tea?"
John cocked an eyebrow at him. "You, my friend, have been gone for eighteen months. I think the tea can wait."
Before Sherlock could come up with a snappy reply, Mrs. Hudson bustled in, waving a phone. "It's for you!" she announced happily to Sherlock. "It's Lestrade!"
"Lestrade?" John asked incredulously. "But how did he—"
He cut off, and he and Sherlock exchanged a knowing look.
"Mycroft," they agreed simultaneously. Sherlock held out his hand for the phone, and lifted it to his ear.
"Hello? …Yes…I know…Really… Have you at least ruled out poison? …Right…Yes. Of course; I'll be there in ten." He tapped the end button and cocked an eyebrow at John. "Lestrade has a case."
John felt a surge of something unfamiliar…and then he realized what it was. It was the rightness of it all. Sherlock was standing there, in his dramatic coat and with his collar up, Mrs. Hudson was making tea, and they had a case.
John set down his cane.
"You up for it?" Sherlock asked with a knowing smile.
"Oh, God, yes."
The night has gone.