AN: Hello again! I'm really motivated to write atm, and now I've got my own computer so thing just got a lot easier! This oneshot was completely inspired by a song called It Comes Back To You by Imagine Dragons, so if you haven't heard that masterpeace, you definitely should! Any typos or grammar mistakes are mine.
Disclamer: I don't own any of these characters.
It Comes Back to You:
4am beside myself
And what I think of mental health
All the things that worry me
All the things you don't believe
I've been told just what to do
Where to look and point my view
All the things that I could be
I think I learned in therapy
Am I just a shadow you drew?
He was dead.
And that was just something he needed to accept. Sherlock wasn't coming back. Nobody could survive a fall like that.
And he had been there. Seen all of it. How he had thrown away his phone and leaned forwards. And fallen. Fallen to his death. His last words haunted him.
John rubbed his face with his hands. It was 4am and sleep was just a distant memory.
Fuck...he was actually dead. His best friends had committed suicide. And he had not been able to prevent that. Had not been able to say the thing he had wanted to say. Now everybody believed that Sherlock was a fake and his suicide only seemed to confirm that.
But John didn't beleave in that shit. Sherlock had been amazing and brilliant and real. Nobody could fake the things he had done.
Oh, God he wished he could go back in time. Two weeks exactly. Fourteen days. 336 hours...20 160 minutes, 1 209 600 seconds...
Had it really been that long? He wasn't sure. After all, time was relative.
All his days were the same. He woke up...or stopped lying down... He didn't really sleep. Just laid awake on his bed at Baker Street and waited for a miracle to happen.
He had started seeing Ella again. The few night he had been able to find sleep, his dreams had been filled with nightmares. Of his time in the army...of Sherlock falling...
Every time John closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock's body lying on the pavement. Block soaking his beautiful, curly, black hair and eyes staring blankly into nothingness.
There wasn't anything he could do, to get those pictures out of his head. He was sad and alone.
John's left hand had started shaking again, and the pain in his leg had come back. Now he was limping slightly.
So that's why he was seeing his therapist again.
Talking to her helped a little. But hearing that he needed to let go. That he needed to accept the situation and to look forward into his future...that didn't help, because he saw no future.
John Watson was nothing without Sherlock Holmes. Just a shadow. Sherlock had made his life worth living.
Sherlock's funeral was the worst thing that had happened to John. Ever.
There were quite a lot of people, but his parents weren't there. He and Mycrofr got treated like the greaving widow would.
And John hated every second of it. For a moment he swore that he had been able to see that familiar, long coat among the people, but after blinking his eyes the figure had vanished...
He had been asked to prepare a speech, but the task had been too much for him. He couldn't say the things he wanted to, in front of a crowd. In the end Greg had promised to say a few words.
After the funeral John and Mrs. Hudson had gone back to Baker Street. But to John that place didn't feel like a home anymore.
It wasn't one without Sherlock.
The skull on the mantle peace stared at John and he sat down on his chair. It looked sad...the skull.
"You told me once, that...you weren't a hero...there were times I didn't even think you were human, but lemme tell you this...
You were the best man...and the most human...human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me, that you told me a lie. Thats...there." John said and walked forwards to touch his best friend's tombstone.
"I was so alone, and I own you so much." He started walking away from the grave, before turning back and adding:
"There's just one more thing...one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock. For me.
Don't. Be. Dead.
Would you do that? Just for me?
Just stop it...stop this."
John's tears were flowing freely, and he was practically sobbing. He just wanted to have Sherlock back.
Then, one Friday morning, John almost had a heart attach as he stepped into the kitchen to make tea.
Sherlock was sitting there.
He was sitting on his chair. Wearing his beige dressing gown and that sexy purple shirt and trousers. And he was looking ever so cheerful.
"Hello, John. Did you miss me?"
He felt like passing out.
What the fuck was happening? This couldn't be real. He had finally lost it. He kenew that.
"Don't look so horrified. Deep down you knew this was going to happen. You even asked for it." Sherlock said and stood up.
"I...W-What is happening? You cannot be real. You died..." John was able to mumble. The not-real-Sherlock started walking around him, like he was studying every inch of the doctor.
"I am you're minds creation and you need to understand that. I am not real."
So...John was now actually telling himself that he was hallucinating? That he was becoming crazy?!
He hadn't even taken anything! He had often seen patients have hallucinations, caused by alcohol or drugs, but he was sober. Even if the bottle had felt tempting in these past few weeks, he had kept his hands off of it. He didn't want to end up like Harry...
"You seem so real...why can't you be?" John said, his voice filled with desperation.
"Because I died, John. I committed suicide." Sherlock said with his familiar, deep voice. John tried to approach and touch him, but as so as he was about to grab Sherlock's hand he was gone. Sherlock had disappeared and John was once again alone in the flat.
How deep was he in his grief? He was hallucinating. That was not a good sign.
John looked at his watch. He was about to be late from work if he stayed like this for much longer.
He made tea, but skipped breakfast, and booked an extra appointment with his therapist. He needed to sleep. John was almost 100% sure that the not-real-Sherlock was caused by the lack of sleep. Or then he was just actually going crazy.
He should be more careful with the things he wished.
It comes back to you, it comes back to you
All the things that you had lost will find their way to you
It comes back to you, it comes back to you
Looking back into the past and I can see it through
It comes back to you
It comes back to you
It comes back to you
It comes back to you
It happened again, at work, in the middle of his shift. John had just released a patient and was typing with his computer, when he heard his friends voice.
"She is in an unhappy marriage and is having an affair with his husbands brother. Also married. She's got one, gray cat and her car broke yesterday."
"Go Away, Sherlock. You are nothing but a hallucination, and hallucinations can't make deductions." The doctor insisted and nervously tapped his table with a pen.
"And you're anxious." the detective continued deducing.
"Of course I'm fucking anxious. I can't sleep, or even close my eyes without having to replay your death!" John hissed. "I'm just so tired..."
Then he was gone, again. As quickly as he had come. When John got ready to call his next patient in, he heard Sherlock's voice.
"You need me, John."
"...Yes...I do."
Ella had described him sleeping pills. He had told her about the nightmares but hadn't mentioned the hallucination. John didn't want anyone to know.
"John...is there something you are not telling me?" His therapist asked with her calm voice.
"No...what makes you think that?"
"You're restless, you keep glancing around you and this is an extra appointment you booked this morning. Why today John? Why couldn't you wait untill Monday?"
"Because I needed to talk. And I have no one else to talk to..." he answered.
Ella wrote something down, but John wasn't able to read it. She was keeping her notes turned away from him.
"You're still trying to read my notes. You still have trust issues." she pointed out as her pen stopped working on the paper. "
"Maybe. Things have gone pretty much to the same as they were few years ago." John admitted. And it was true. With the exception that he was now talking to his dead friend.
Weeks passed and John moved out of Baker Street. The place made him feel even more depressed, so he packed his stuff and moved to a small flat on the other side of London.
Mycroft stopped calling him after that. Of course John knew, that the elder Holmes would still be keeping an eye on him. Why wouldn't he be?
He had also gotten used to the fact that Sherlock's ghost or whatever it was, was following him, waiting him when he got home from work or making deductions about his patients.
John wasn't able to get rid of him. Sherlock came back to him, whatever happened.
The voice had been right. John needed him.
Some nights were easier than others. Sometimes he would sleep through the night with the help of sleeping pills. Others he would spend talking to Sherlock. Sometimes he would cry.
He missed Sherlock so goddamn much. The real, living, breathing, warm Sherlock he had never had a chance to hold in his arms.
His minds creation was different from the real Sherlock. This one wasn't such an annoying dick all the time.
He didn't cause catastrophes. He just was there. Kept talking to him. And John also kept talking to him.
Because he didn't really have anyone else to talk to, but every time his tried to touch him, he vanished.
How never he tried to avoid talking to him in somewhere other people might hear him. In public, he would just listen.
Soon it had been six months. Six months since Sherlock had died. That day John stayed home. He didn't want to socialize with people who didn't understand him. Who thought Sherlock had been a fake.
John sat on the sofa with a drink on his hand and just existed.
He was able to hear Sherlock playing his violin. It wasn't the first time he was hearing it.
He was playing a rather quick melody. It was beautiful and sounded happy. Suddenly he stopped playing.
"Mozart. Adelaide Concerto in D major." He said and lowered his violin.
"Did you know, that this concerto was not actually composed by Mozart, but by a man called Marius Casadesus. He only wanted his concerto to be famous. That's why he published it under Mozart's name."
"No, I didn't. It's beautiful all the same. Oh I wish I could read notes like that."
"No, John. The combined notes themselves are not beautiful. The peace is only beautiful when you know how to play it. You have to bring the notes alive with the instrument." Sherlock argued with him.
"Well...you certainly know how to play it..." John said and took a sip of his drink. "Do you know what day it is today?" He asked.
"Yes. Of course I do, John. I am in your mind, remember? It's been six months since my death."
John was looking at the glass in his hands. Sometimes Sherlock seemed so real. Sometimes he would forget, just for a moment that his best friend was dead.
And then he would remember.
When he looked up again, Sherlock was gone.
With a sigh he stood up. After putting on his shoes and coat he took the flowers he had bought the day before and headed to the cemetery. Sherlock's tombstone was waiting for him. Of course it was.
He placed the flowers in front of the stone. "I hope you like them. I didn't even know your favorite color, you know." John said and a tear escaped his eye. "So...the flowers are red...shit... There were so many thing about you that I didn't know, but would've wanted to.
Sherlock...I never got to say this to you, but...I love you..."
"I. Love. You." He sobbed.
The tombstone stayed quiet. More tars started to flow down his cheeks. John turned away from the grave and made his way back to his little flat. Sherlock was waiting for him.
"How was it? I quite like the stone. Plain and simple. Complete opposite of me. I was never plain or simple." He said with his usual manner.
"Shut up. Just shut up! Get away from my head! My life is miserable enough without you, constantly talking to me!" John shouted at Sherlock. "
Shouting at his minds own creation didn't help. Instead, Sherlock followed him through the rest of the day. Never leaving him alone.
When the night came, the temptation to take more that just one sleeping pill grew stronger. Maybe death would fix his broken life...
In the end, John fell asleep. The last thing he heard was Sherlock's violin.
Then something happened. John had met his new receptionist. Her name was Mary and she was very pretty.
She had been the one to make the first move. One day, after both of their shifts had ended, Mary had asked him out.
"I don't know...you won't like me. I'm just an ordinary, boring man." John had said.
"Let me be the judge of that.." Mary had answered. After that, John's life had taken a turn for the better. She pulled John out of the bubble of depression he had been in and made him feel alive again.
Yes, Sherlock was still there, following him, walking by his side and seducing the hell out of people. Sometimes he would hear his violin.
And every time he and Mary went on a date, Sherlock would be there. Standing by the wall, looking sad. Whatever happened, everything always came back to Sherlock.
"You told me you loved me..."
"I still do, but Mary is alive...you're dead."
Oh, how wrong John had been.
Mocking birds and diamond rings
Oh I have thought of greater things
All the things that fly by me
All the lives that I could lead
Maybe I was born for that
Or maybe I was first to last
You could call it cowardice
Leave me to my studied bliss
Am I just a shadow you drew?
The evening was going to be a success. He knew it. The diamond ring was in his pocket felt heavy.
What if Mary said no?
No. She was going to say yes.
The Landmark restaurant was a nice place. And Mary was unbelievably beautiful. After she exuded herself and went to the loo, he decided that it was time. If he was about to propose, he would have to do it now.
The French waiter came to him just when he was about to call one. They needed champagne.
"Well then. Suprise me." John said to the waiter and drank thebrest of his wine. Gosh it tasted terrible.
"I'm certainly endeavoring to, sir" The waiter said with a strong, French accent. It sounded terrifyingly familiar. The voice.
Oh, God...not now.
"Sorry that took so long." Mary said as she sat back down. John quickky put the ring back into his pocket.
After mumbling out words and being slightly taken aback by Mary's comment, he was finally getting the right words out of his mouth.
And then the fucking French waiter came to them with the bottle of champagne.
"Seriously, could you just..."
Fucking. Hell.
Why did he have to show up right now?
At least for a moment he thought he was seeing Sherlock's ghost or whatever, until he looked at Mary. She was looking at then both. And Sherlock was talking. And Mary was able to see Sherlock. She had definitely just recognized him.
"Oh my God...you're him."
"Mmm. Not quite." was Sherlock's answer.
Mary was able to see Sherlock. And if she was able to see him, then...that meant that he wasn't hallucinating and that meant that...oh Jesus Sherlock was such a dickhead.
After punching him in the face, shaving his moustache away and after be in saved from a bonfire, they finally had a chance to talk.
"You're parents weren't at the funeral...did they know? That you weren't dead?" John asked.
"Maybe..." Was the only answer he got.
"Listen...I'm sorry. For being angry at you, for hitting you. I just...you have no idea what I went through..."
"But you moved on. You're happy now." the detective declared.
"Not until Mary came into my life...you know...your "death" affected me a lot." John said with a tight voice.
"I got depressed. My leg started hurting. Suddenly I found myself from the same situation I had been just two years back.
I talked to you. I talked to you constantly cause you wouldn't leave my head. I saw you everywhere. I heard you play your violin. It was always beautiful. You would play happy music when I was sad, and sad music when I was happy...and then there were the nightmares.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw it again. I saw you. Because everything is always about you!" He's voice got a more aggressive tone. A bit desperate perhaps.
Sherlock was just sitting there. On his chair, again. Looking guilty.
"Some night were so bad I thought I wouldn't see the next day. Those were the nights I missed you the most..." A single tear rolled down John's cheek. It hurt so much.
"John, I'm sorry, but I had to do it. You would've died. So would've Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I simply had to do it." There was something new in Sherlock's voice. Something John hadn't heard before.
"I thought you didn't like me. I was such an asshole all the time. I thought you could move on easily..."
"Sherlock. I could never hate you. You are the best and the wisest man I have ever known and no one will ever convince me otherwise."
"Why is that?"
"Because I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
It comes back to you, it comes back to you
All the things that you had lost will find their way to you
It comes back to you, it comes back to you
Looking back into the past and I can see it through
It comes back to you
It comes back to you
It comes back to you
It comes back to you
~It Comes Back to You, Imagine Dragons
AN: Thank you for reading, please leave feedback!
xxx, T