There'll be angst. No, really. Angst and soppiness. This is probably the soppiest thing I've ever written, but... I couldn't help myself. I had to. Not sorry.
Title inspired by the Mumford & Sons song of the same name.
Enjoy.
Oh, and... do you really need a warning? If you do, please take a look at the title.
Ghosts That We Knew
~o~
Or: FIVE TIMES JOHN WASN'T THERE, AND ONE TIME HE WAS.
One
~o~
Pain is the first thing he becomes aware of, intense, blaring pain consuming his entire being. The pain makes it impossible to think, to remember, to clear his head, and yet he knows that there is something, something important, something he needs to remember.
He tries to breathe and can't, tries to open his eyes and can't, and finally gives in and lets himself drift.
When consciousness returns to Sherlock the next time, everything is still hazy, but the pain has been numbed, a dull, muted ache somewhere at the back of his mind. His eyes will not open, and so he lies, listens to the beeping noise in the background – hospital, the lucid part of his mind that is still capable of thinking tells him, he is in hospital – and tries to sort through the darkness that is his mind.
He fades out again, and when he wakes again, it is because of memories of fire and a blaze and heat attacking him, memories of the smell of burnt flesh in his nose, memories of blood on his hands and salty liquid on his face.
He cannot grasp them, does not understand, remembers, hazily, hands wrapping around his arms, pulling him back, shoving him aside. John's hands.
A hoarse sound makes it past his lips, a croak that burns in his throat and singes his palate, not more than a whisper.
"John."
Somebody moves next to him as panic surges through Sherlock, hot, unadultered panic that has his heart racing and his stomach seizing, and when he wrenches his eyes open, succeeds in taking in his blurring surroundings, it is not John he sees.
He recalls a case in the nebulous land of his misty dreams, a case, investigations, a building, a door, heat, heat and pain. And when he opens his eyes for the next time, blinks them open despite the heaviness of his lids, he knows what is most important, knows what he needs to ask.
"Where's John," he mumbles and can hear his own heart rate speeding up.
Someone is in the room with him, a familiar shape, but not John. Not John. "Sherlock...," a voice begins, familiar, but not John.
"Where's John," he repeats and attempts to sit up, attempts to ignore the fire that blazes to life in his bones and muscles and skin.
Hands are on his shoulders and press him back against the pillows, the mattress, hands, and a face, Lestrade's face, stubble on his chin and shadows around his eyes, blurs into focus in front of him.
Deduce, Sherlock's mind tells him. Deduce.
"Lestrade," Sherlock mouths and is not sure whether a single sound makes it through his narrowing throat, "where's John. Tell me, I... I need to... to..."
Images spiral through his mind, images that fade out and blur together and torment his head. Case, investigating, John's gun in his hand. A building, front door, another door. John's quiet whisper behind him, John's presence, John. Sherlock's hand on the door, opening it, stepping forward. John shouting behind him, the cluttering of a gun to the floor, hands wrapping around his arms and pulling, pulling him away, and then... a blast, explosion, fire, heat, pain, John, and darkness.
Sherlock cannot breathe. "Lestrade," he wheezes and struggles against the palms on his shoulders, struggles to sit up because he needs to go and see John and convince himself that John is fine and will be alright and that John hasn't done something fundamentally stupid, that John is fine and will recover, and...
The strength drains out of him, and Sherlock slumps. "Lestrade," he whispers again.
And then Lestrade shakes his head, slowly, a defeated gesture, and Sherlock's world stops.
~o~
Two
~o~
He is tired. Exhaustion is hanging over him like a dark cloud, pressing him down and squeezing the breath out of his lungs. He is so tired.
"I told you," John says from somewhere in the background. Armchair, Sherlock's mind reasons, sitting in his armchair. "You're not as young as you used to be. You can't just go five days without sleep any more."
The pressure is weighing him down; cold is ambushing him, and Sherlock cannot find the energy to protest against John's words.
"Oh Sherlock," another voice cuts through his semiconsciousness a while later, an indeterminable while later. Hands appear on his face, cool hands, and Sherlock rejoices in the relief they bring. "What were you thinking, leaving the hospital so early."
Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's brain comes up with, Mrs Hudson. Talking nonsense, obviously. "'m fine," he slurs and yet does not tell her to remove her hands.
Mrs Hudson doesn't answer, and the next thing Sherlock is aware of is the feeling of something cold on his forehead, water dripping softly down his temples. Three different voices are talking to each other, sounding far away, so far away. Sherlock inhales, shifts, his body aching. "'m fine," he slurs when another pair of hands appears somewhere on him, his neck, his shoulders. "John," he mumbles, "'m fine."
"Maybe we should ring the hospital," he can hear Mrs Hudson mumble somewhere, far away, her voice choked. "It's..."
"They're worried about you, you know," John provides. Sherlock can't see him, not even when he blinks his eyes open, a strenuous task that requires far too much effort. "'m fine," he repeats and wonders, wonders why he is so tired, why his head is throbbing, why his chest feels so heavy, burning, stinging, and breathing is impossibly hard. Boring, his own voice reminds him, his own voice from long ago. Breathing's boring.
"Do you remember what happened?" John wants to know. Sherlock wants to see him, needs to see him, the urge to look at John and know he's here overwhelming him, but his eyes won't open. His lids are glued to his eyeballs, and he can't move them, can't think, can't breathe.
"Sherlock," John tells him, firmly now. "You really need to take better care of yourself. You can't keep doing that, you know?"
Sherlock shivers, can't possibly stop it. There are hands on his face once more, slim, cool hands, Mrs Hudson's, he knows, and another voice is piercing the veil that is clouding his mind.
"Sherlock," someone says, and Sherlock wants to curl in on himself for a moment, wants to be a little boy again and doesn't even know why. "Brother dear, open your eyes."
"I'm calling Molly," a third voice interjects, and Sherlock shivers again. Cold, it is so cold. And where's John?
Somehow, his eyes open, finally, a sliver. Light is seeping into his head, burning, stabbing, and two faces swim into focus.
"Oh Sherlock," Mrs Hudson sighs and runs her fingers over his temples, the cool touch doing little to ease the pain.
His eyes slip closed again, Mrs Hudson's frail fingertips lingering. Something, something, something important... something.
He breathes, and shudders, and blinks. "Where's John," he whispers and doesn't care that the quiet words singe his throat.
"Ssh," his brother says, and if Sherlock hadn't known that something was not right, that something was wrong, he would now.
"My," he croaks and feels himself slipping. "Where's..."
He doesn't even finish the sentence before oblivion claims him.
John is there whenever he wakes, cold, shivering, always surrounded by voices and darkness. John is there and scolds him for being so reckless, for not taking care of himself, for leaving the hospital too early. Sherlock doesn't understand, doesn't know what John means because he is fine, is simply tired, will be fine after a few hours of sleep and a cup of John's tea, just like always. Just like always.
The voices around him are blurring, don't make sense, talk about explosions, funerals, hospital stays, infections, and Sherlock wants to tell them that they're wrong, they're all wrong, everything's fine, but can't find the strength. Can't find the energy.
John is there when he wakes again, in the darkness, something cold on his forehead, snoring audible in the room. Not John's though, because John is here, next to him, perched on the coffee table next to the sofa where Sherlock is resting.
John regards him with worry in his eyes, and Sherlock's heart clenches. "Told you," he mumbles and wonders why he hurts. Why everything hurts. "'m fine."
John smiles, faintly, and then shakes his head. "You're an idiot," he tells Sherlock, and Sherlock wants to laugh, but can't, because everything hurts, because everything's so heavy, because there's a pain in his chest that is like nothing he has ever experienced before. There are memories, memories of a case, an explosion, John...
John gives him another smile and nods. "Yes," he says, and Sherlock's heart twinges again. Twinges, stings, burns.
His eyes droop, but he can't close them. If he closes them, John will disappear. John might never come back. "John," he croaks and swallows, swallows against the wave of dizziness, of pain, rolling over him and threatening to drown him. I'm sorry, he wants to say, I'm sorry I couldn't save you, I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, John, please... But he can't, because his throat narrows and he can't breathe. Can't breathe.
"It's fine, you know," John tells him and gets to his feet. "I'm not angry at you for missing my funeral. I'm just glad you're okay."
I'm not, Sherlock wants to counter, wants to sit up and tell John to stop it, to stop all of this.
"Oh," John makes and turns around. "I think Mycroft's waking up. He's been here for days, you know. They've all been here. They were worried about you."
"John," is the only thing Sherlock manages.
John smiles again and nods. "You'll be fine. Just... be careful."
And then Sherlock's eyes open, and Mycroft's face appears, and he can't help it, has to say it: "John?"
"Ssh," Mycroft says again, and it's wrong, it's all so wrong. "John's not here. Go back to sleep."
Sherlock blinks, stares at his brother, and feels the hole in his chest more strongly than before. Because John's not here, John won't ever be here again, because John's dead and buried and Sherlock didn't even attend the funeral, didn't, because no-one told him, because no-one informed him while he was lying in a hospital bed and trying to understand how everything could have gone so wrong. How he could be here, and John could not.
"Go back to sleep," Mycroft repeats, and although it's still wrong, although it's Mycroft and not John and John has no right not to be here, Sherlock obeys, because, and it's as simple as that, John isn't here and will never be here again.
~o~
Three
~o~
Sherlock is back in Serbia.
The cell is the same, the dampness of the cellar, the shackles around his wrists, and he is back.
"I don't know," he whispers again and shivers, tries to clench his teeth. "I don't know. I don't know." He doesn't even know if he's speaking Serbian, as he's supposed to be, or English, or if he isn't talking at all, if his dry throat can't manage to produce even the raspiest sound any longer; he doesn't care.
Water splashes over him, cold as ice, and his trembling increases. "I don't know," he repeats.
The door to his cell opens, and Sherlock manages to raise his head. Mycroft, it has to be Mycroft; Mycroft has come for him once, has brought him back home, Mycroft will come for him again. It's Mycroft, it has to be Mycroft.
Harsh voices grunt at him, but it is impossible to make sense of the voices. Mycroft, Sherlock's muddled brain can come up with, Mycroft. Pain sears through him when a fist throws a punch and his head slams back.
"Look!" someone shouts, "look!"
Someone is shoved inside, into his cell, a gun against his head. The air is driven out of Sherlock's lungs, and this time, it's not because of a kick or a hit with the iron bar.
Sherlock's eyes focus, slowly, and are drawn the man's face immediately, splattered with drops of blood and bruises.
The shackles, the chains rattle when he slumps and squeezes his eyes shut. It's not real if he doesn't look. It's not real. It can't be real.
"Now you will talk," one of his torturers tells him. "Talk!"
He doesn't, can't talk, can't think. Another fist comes flying.
And then, clear and undeniably real in the silence, John's voice: "Stop it!"
"Talk!" the harsh voice shouts again and rewards John with a punch in turn.
John, John here, in Serbia, not safe back in London, here. It can't be real, can't be. Can't be, can't be. Sherlock closes his eyes again, bites his lips and concentrates on John at 221B, John in safety and back home.
"Talk, talk, talk." The voices are conglomerating around him, John's voice among them, yelling "talk" and "stop" and "Sherlock", and finally a gunshot, stunning everything into silence.
Sherlock's eyes snap open, and he looks into John's eyes, John's blue, dark eyes, empty and dead, framed by a bloody hole in his forehead, and then fires are consuming John.
He screams.
And wakes.
Wakes, covered in his own sweat, tangled in his sheets; his heart is thudding in his chest and he can't breathe.
"John," he whimpers.
Sherlock almost falls out of his bed; his legs are not cooperating; he is dragging his covers with him and stumbles more than he is walking, but he doesn't care. John, John. Needs to make sure John is here, not in Serbia, that John is fine.
"John!" he calls while he is hurrying up the stairs. John will be angry at him, will groan and moan because Sherlock's woken him in the middle of the night again and John has to work in the morning, because John actually needs sleep like any other normal person, because John actually takes care of his own transport, unlike Sherlock. Not important, not important. Because all of that means that it was just a dream, just a stupid, ridiculous dream and not at all real.
Sherlock falls into John's room along with the door, and freezes.
And wakes properly.
Because the room is empty, as empty as it's been ever since John left it to work on another case with Sherlock, the one case he didn't come back from.
Sherlock's legs buckle beneath him as the final haze of the dream fades and reality comes crashing back to him, as cold and empty and hopeless as the dream.
Because John's not in Serbia, of course not, but he's not here either. And he never will be.
Sherlock doesn't move from his spot, leaning against the wall of John's empty and cold and Johnless room and shivering in its darkness, nor does he want to find sleep again.
~o~
Four
~o~
Dead. Dead. Dead. All dead. Open, vacant eyes are staring at him; red bubbling from a throat that was slit long before he even got there; red accusing him of failure, of not being good enough, not being fast enough, not being enough.
"It's not your fault." Lestrade's words, echoing in his head, but he knows that it's not true, knows it because he failed, failed to save those people everybody was relying on him to save, because he couldn't do it, wasn't clever enough, wasn't brilliant enough. His fault, and his alone.
The needle feels cold against the crook of his elbow, but he barely notices.
He depresses the plunger, empties the content of the syringe into his veins. Waits for the world to start spinning around him, for the knowledge of failure to fade from his brain, to disappear, for the red mist in front of his eyes to clear, for everything to stop.
It doesn't take long for him to feel tired, or it doesn't feel like it takes long, and when he closes his eyes, he can almost see John standing there, with a disapproving frown on his face.
"Where's John," he mumbles. Where's John.
Commotion surrounds him, people, too many people, wrong people trying to talk to him and asking questions, utterly stupid questions. "John isn't here," they tell him and continue to tape IVs to both of his forearms, continue to talk to him, continue to try and help him. No need to, he wants to tell them, because he's got his own doctor at home and doesn't need those imbeciles to fuss over him. No need to bother, he wants to tell them, too, because what good is he, a detective that can't even solve the crime, can't even save the people.
"Where's John," he repeats, but they don't answer him. Nobody ever answers this question.
And John still isn't here.
"You need to call John," he attempts to tell the young woman whose face appears over him some time later. Hospital, his senses tell him, hospital, A&E, probably. John will, no doubt, be angry. For a brief moment, he wonders what he has done to justify a hospital, whether he hasn't eaten, whether he hasn't drunk the tea John had made for him, whether he has finally had a heart attack, just as John always feared.
But it doesn't matter that John will be angry, because John will be here nonetheless, and that's enough.
Only then – the woman still doesn't answer, how moronic – does he begin to wonder, fear surging through him, if maybe he has driven John away, at last, with his antics, whether John has finally had enough, has left for good. He wonders, a stab grabbing hold of his heart, whether he will never see John again because John has come to his senses and realised that he is better off on his own.
But no. No. His heart aches, and he doesn't allow himself to believe that.
"John," he reminds her and tries to ignore the pain in his chest, the pain everywhere, "it's important. You need to call him."
She doesn't reply, moves, adjusts something, and he can feels his limbs tire. "No," he protests, "John!"
She tells him something, but her words are muddled in his ears, and he doesn't understand. Nonsense, he wants to reprimand her nonetheless and shut her up and demand that she finally do as he says and call John, but a heaviness grabs hold of his body, pulls him down. The world is hazy around him, frazzling around the edges and, once so bright, dimming now, clouding.
At least it numbs the pain in his chest.
A little.
It is impossible to tell how much time has passed, but when he wakes again, the heaviness is gone, but the pain in his chest still lingers. He doesn't remember much, flickers of a syringe filled with seven percent solution, flickers of blood and dead people, dead because of him, flickers of lights moving above him and people asking stupid questions and talking to him.
"John," is the first thing he says, despite the rawness of his throat and the weight of his tongue in his mouth.
Someone stirs in a chair next to him, but it's not John.
And then Sherlock remembers, everything, and it takes the breath out of his lungs and tenfolds the pain in his chest, in his heart.
"Sherlock," Lestrade says, and it sounds like a sigh. "Thank god."
Dark shadows beneath his eyes, Sherlock notes, unshaven, clothes rumpled, back obviously stiff from sitting in the same chair for three, no, four days.
"Don't ever do that to us again," Lestrade tells him. Lestrade, not John.
Sherlock simply closes his eyes.
~o~
Five
~o~
There's something wrong with his tea.
Sherlock leans forward in his chair and adds some more milk. It's tea, black tea; dried leaves, a mug, boiling water, a touch of milk, no sugar, stir. Nothing extraordinary, nothing complicated. He takes another sip, swallows. Frowns, because it still doesn't taste right.
Stupid. Of course not.
Shaking his head, he puts down the mug. "Where was I?" he mumbles. "Ah, right. Galileo Galilei."
He picks up the magazine with the essay he's started reading, but doesn't look at the page just yet.
He still talks to John, sometimes. Not about cases, not any more, not since he officially retired and moved from London to Sussex. Well, the odd cold case here and there, but it's not only cases now. Bees, mostly, apiculture; random things that come to his mind.
John never answers, of course, but that's... It's not okay, and Sherlock doesn't think it ever will be, but it's... expected, by now. He's grown used to the hole in his life by now.
His eyes skim through his living-room, the magazine loosely held in his hands. His cottage is smaller than his flat in Baker Street, but he finds he doesn't need much these days. There's only one armchair now – John's, always John's, lumpy and ratty with age by now but still John's – and he doesn't keep any experiments in the fridge or in the kitchen any more. Sometimes, he's tempted to, if only to hear John's reprimanding voice in his head.
Sherlock smiles softly and closes his eyes. His health is declining – consequence of years of stress, smoking and substance abuse, and there's a pain in his chest that never seems to leave him – but his mind is blessedly intact. John is still there, in his mind palace. He can still remember John.
John would be pleased, he likes to think. Some days, Sherlock can almost see him, hair gone completely grey now, glasses – which he keeps complaining about – on his nose, but healthy and with a straight back. Can almost see him, sitting in his armchair, reading the paper, or outside, in the garden, shaking his head at the bee hives and Sherlock's fascination with them. Walking through the front door, grocery bags in his hands, muttering about how some people can never be bothered to help. In the kitchen, on the chair opposite of Sherlock's, at breakfast. Eating toast, drinking tea. In the kitchen, making tea.
When Sherlock opens his eyes, the image of 221B's kitchen and days long past fades into nothing, and he is back in Sussex, in his cottage, with his bees for company.
Maybe he should text Lestrade, he muses as he reaches for his mug. Lestrade, over eighty now, with half a dozen grandchildren, who still checks on him, regularly.
He takes a sip from his mug, and frowns. His tea still doesn't taste right.
But then, it never does. Not any more.
~o~
Six
~o~
When Sherlock surfaces, the pain is gone, the pain from the last few days, or weeks, or months, and his mind is clear, the haze around his brain, constant companion for the past few days, or weeks, is gone. He keeps his eyes closed and breathes, smells, tastes in a way he hasn't smelled and tasted the air around him in an entire lifetime.
This is it, then, he thinks, and feels, surprisingly, peace.
"You're late," a voice addresses him.
Sherlock's heart stops.
"But then," the voice goes on, comes closer, approaches him, "I would've killed you myself if you'd shown up here any earlier."
A smile spreads on his face, slow, tentative, but a smile. His eyes open, and there is John Watson.
John Watson, standing in front of him, a grin on his face, his blue eyes dark and comforting, clad in a jumper and jeans. Sherlock breathes, and has to close his burning eyes. The image of John in a coffin, slowly being replaced by John, in front of him, smiling.
"Come on," John urges him, and yet Sherlock does not move. "John," he says.
John nods. "Yes," he agrees. "Kettle's just boiled, and Greg's been anxious to ask your opinion on a cold case."
Finally, Sherlock rises. "Who's Greg?" he asks, and when John chuckles, giggles, Sherlock is sure that he has never heard anything so perfect, so brilliant.
"John," he says again.
John stops and turns to look at him. "Yes?" he asks.
Sherlock swallows. "John," he repeats, "where have you been? I couldn't find you."
And then John's smile changes, grows sad, but John is still here, with him, next to him, and that's all that matters. "I know," he replies quietly and holds out his hand. "But I've always been there, you know. I've always been where you were."
"You're here now," Sherlock remarks and remembers the emptiness, a hole ripped through him, that is fading now, slowly, now that John is here, and he is with John.
"Yes," John confirms and smiles. And adds: "Coming?"
And Sherlock steps forwards, takes John's outstretched hand and follows John.
Thank you for reading.