Author's Note: Set after the fall. I haven't seen season 2 yet so there are no spoilers. :P This is meant to be read with the song Skellig by Loreena McKennitt. I changed the lyrics for the story though so don't worry if it's different. [A cookie to whoever knows the book quote John remembers ;) ]

Lyrics are bold, memories and texts italicized. Oh, and I own nothing :P

Edit: I changed the lyrics in the last stanza... My tired brain decided to rhyme "last" with... "last". It's fixed now. XD

Truth's Hourglass

John wasn't sure why he'd agreed to go to the concert with Sarah. He hardly felt like doing anything really. It had been three years… three years to the day since Sherlock's fall and still his heart ached painfully at the mere thought of it. The past two years, he'd stayed in the flat on this day. Just sitting, staring into the empty fireplace and remembering. It hurt… hurt so much but for those few moments, he could pretend Sherlock had gone out… that he'd be back eventually. Sarah told him it was unhealthy… and she was right.

He sat through the concert silently, beautiful Mozart and Beethoven pieces, a few Celtic songs as well that he honestly enjoyed. His phone buzzed and he shifted in his seat, pulling the mobile from his pocket and opening the message.

Pay attention, John.

~ Mycroft

What is that supposed to mean? To what? He sent back, irritated by the elder Holmes and plagued by memories that pressed his chest tightly. The audience's applause drowned out his mobile's buzzing.

Listen well, Doctor. The words are meant for you.

~ Mycroft

Confused, John tucked the phone away, fixing his eyes again on the stage and the woman standing in its center. A slow, mournful tune began, violin and flute weaving slowly together like smoke. The players were all wearing long, dark cloaks, adding to the feel of mystery and darkness of the piece.

Light the candle, John

The daylight is almost gone

The birds have sung their last

The bells call all to mass

John froze, Mycroft's message ringing in his ears. Light the candle…

John slipped into the sitting room, trying not to look at the remnants of his friend's presence. The books scattered across the desk… the papers… the skull… the pain. He moved to the window, opening the curtains and looking down at the still dark streets. It was near dawn. He could hear bells ringing in the distance, calling the people to an early mass. Taking a match from the box by the sill, he struck one and held it to the wick of a tall white candle.

"In memory of Sherlock Holmes…" he whispered as the wick caught and the flame flickered softly in the dark.

John blinked, mind racing. Mycroft had set this up. Angry tears stung at his eyes but he blinked them back. It was cruel of him, forcing John to be the crux of the politician's own memorial.

Seat ye by the fire

For the night is very long

There's something I must tell

For I've been gone too long

John's breath caught in his throat, a hidden sob, his hand tightening on Sarah's. She squeezed back, not understanding the depth of the music's effects on her companion.

Before our brotherhood

My books were all to me

I learned the words of God

And much of history

John frowned. "Learned the words of God….."

"You're taking on quite the Goliath with this one, Sherlock."

"I'm what?" Sherlock turned from the mantle, frowning at John in an almost offended manner.

"Goliath… the giant. Please tell me you've at least heard of him!" Sherlock's response was the exact opposite of what John had expected. He went silent, looking down at his hand where it rested on the wood above the fireplace, his voice soft and thoughtful.

"I have learned the words of God…."

Mycroft hadn't written this… Mycroft hadn't heard what his brother had said that day. These… these were Sherlock's words.

Many a year was I

Perched out upon the sea

The waves would wash my tears

The wind my memory

Tears? Memory? If John didn't know better, and bitterly so, he would have thought Sherlock was still out there, lost or exiled and plagued by memories just like himself.

I'd hear the ocean breathe

Exhale upon our shore

I knew the tempest's blood

His wrath I would endure

The tempest…

"Moriarty!"

John jumped as Sherlock slammed his palms on the table with a snarl.

"What about him?" he'd asked, knowing it was easiest to help Sherlock after he'd vented his frustration.

"He's not here! He's nowhere- He's like a phantom! No base of operations, no headquarters no nothing!" Sherlock stormed over to the sofa, collapsing onto it dramatically and draping a hand across his face. A few minutes passed before he spoke again. "He's a storm, John… a tempest… just a feel in the air right now but soon…"

Soon…

And so three years went by

Within my rocky cell

With only a mouse or a bird

My friend; I loved them well

John's heart was pounding now, a strange fear and hope growing in his chest. A mouse or a bird…

"Well what do you think then?"

"Not a crow, John! They're carrion birds!"

"But very intelligent." Sherlock just glowered at him.

"They feed on death, John… He is a crow."

"Fine, fine." John chuckled and deleted Sherlock's animal form from his new blog thread. "What about Molly?"

"Mouse," Sherlock waved a hand from his place on the couch, obviously bored but with nothing else to do but indulge John.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock had to think about that one.

"A bird. Something fat. A magpie maybe."

"Are magpies fat?"

"Anything's fat if it eats enough cake…."

John laughed.

And so I had at last

Our world made safe and free

Though many a year it took

Till I arrived here with thee

Here? Sherlock was here? No… he was dead. Sarah was watching him now, her expression concerned. There wasn't much he could do to reassure her. He was sure he looked rather bad by now, shaking and staring at the woman on the stage with a desperation that suggested he'd fall dead if he dared look away. Sarah asked if he would like to leave. He tried to calm his pounding heart and said he was fine. She didn't believe him… neither did he really.

On dusty roads I walked

And over mountains high

Through rivers running deep
Beneath the endless sky

The violin took up the song and the player stood, striding out of the orchestra and toward the woman on the stage. His movements were graceful, the bow sliding across the strings, coaxing the lilting tune out into the air to twist and weave and… he seemed so familiar… so impossibly familiar. The man turned his head ever so slightly and John shivered as the shadowed eyes seemed to stop on him.

Beneath the jasmine flowers

Amidst the cypress trees

I give you now my books

And all their mysteries

Jasmine flowers… cypress trees…

"Sherlock why are there china plates on the bookshelf?"

"They're jasmine."

"What?"

"The flowers. They're jasmine. Rather lovely, don't you think?"

John was shaking in earnest now, deaf to Sarah's whispered queries. The plates had been on the top shelf… just below them were two bookends that held Sherlock's journals… two bookends upon which were carved trees. Cypress trees.

I took Truth's hourglass

And turned it on its head

And when the sands were still

Twas then you found me dead

A choked sob escaped John's lips and he felt Sara's hand on his shoulder. Truth turned on its head. It reminded John a quote that had stayed with him from his childhood: "When a willing victim who has committed no treachery is killed in a traitor's stead, the stone table will crack, and even death itself would turn backwards." A lie… an illusion. Everything backwards and upside down. Life was death and death… life.

O' leave the candle, John

The daylight is almost come

The tempest storm has passed

The violinist stepped forward, standing beside the woman and lowering his hood.

My friend, I'm home at last.

… Sherlock….