All Stars Go Out

Notes: torture (not explicit), profanity, angst, death. star!john, human!sherlock
based on benedictsbottom's star!john headcanon on tumblr at /post/75313219115/

Where do stars go after they die?

-o-

"Mycroft, you fucking cock!" Sherlock roars into his phone, ignoring the offended looks from passers-by. He pushes past them, shoving them away in his haste, and one nearly swings back but Sherlock is halfway down the block before she even makes a fist.

"You know where he is and you aren't telling me on purpose, aren't you?"

"I promise you, brother, I am being perfectly honest when I say I have no idea where your little friend has gone."

"You never liked John," Sherlock accuses. "Always thought him odd and unworthy and all sorts of things, and now you're using it against me."

Mycroft tsk'ed in that way that never failed to make Sherlock's blood boil. "Oh, Sherlock. He really has destroyed you."

"How do you mean?"

"Before, you wouldn't have wasted time and energy yelling at me while there was a mystery to solve. Sentiment really does not suit you, dear brother."

Sherlock growls in frustration. His next plan is the warehouse down by the Thames, the one Moran used a few weeks ago, but that one, like the other three, is a pure guess. There had only been a picture, one sent three hours ago, of his John, acting stoic and strong—oh his poor, precious John—tied to a chair, bleeding from a wound on his shoulder, bruised on both eyes, and glowing faintly in a large, darkened room. The number had already been disconnected by the time Sherlock called it, his whole body on fire with rage and anguish.

"Use the powers that be to find him," Sherlock commands through gritted teeth. "You have access to every single CCTV camera in this whole fucking city, use them to find him or I swear to God, Mycroft—"

"Yes, Sherlock, do continue that threat."

"I shall never solve another bloody case for you again, and I will tell Mother." It sounds stupid and childish to involve their mother in the argument, but she happens to be the only person in the world either of them really fear disappointing, so Sherlock knows that he's won when Mycroft grunts and hangs up.

"I'm coming for you John," Sherlock mutters under his breath as he pockets his phone. "Just hold on, please hold on."

-o-

Science had taught Sherlock that shooting stars were really just meteors on fire, flying past the earth, and Sherlock held great stock in science, more than any person he'd ever known. He'd found that people were changeable and deceitful and misleading (not to mention boring), while science hardly ever lied to him and never left.

However, his entire world was turned upside down one night when he was forced to suffer through another family occasion in the country at his parent's house. After dinner, when he decided that he could not stand his parents' drivel or Mycroft's presence a moment longer, he took himself outside and went on a stroll in the small fields on his parents' property. It has a stone path winding away from the house, worn down from years and years of afternoon strolls and the various games Mycroft would play with him before he became boring and insufferable. Sherlock, however, deviated from the path this evening and walked into the field, the grasses and such coming nearly to his knees. He looked up at the stars and scanned the skyscape for constellations. All the usuals were present, as they were supposed to be, and a single shooting star shot across the sky. He turned his eyes back on earth and withdrew a cigarette from his pocket and then reached for his lighter, but found that he'd left it in his coat pocket. Damn. It was unusual for him to be so forgetful. Extremely unusual.

"I would offer to light it for you, but that would be rather against my moral code."

And even more unusual for him to be so unobservant. Sherlock turned toward the voice, a scathing reply on his lips, when he was quite taken aback by the blast of light that hit him. Blinking rapidly, he attempted to make sense of the light and shadows and outline of a figure, and though it took several minutes, he was eventually able to see the man underneath.

He was older than Sherlock, though not by much, and wore the sort of jumper that Sherlock would suggest for Mycroft ironically, and Mycroft would duly scorn. He had fair hair and tanner skin and an odd nose that reminded him of some sort of woodland creature. Sherlock immediately dug deeper, looking for odd marks, smudges, scratches, then posture, expression, bearing, anything with which to deduce something from, but found that he could not make a single deduction. Next, he looked for the light source. The lantern, the torch. But, upon finding none, he finally looked up at the man and frowned.

"John. John Watson," the man said, holding out his hand. It shone as well; a softer gold than before, but still bright enough that Sherlock could read easily by it.

He ignored the hand and instead scrutinised this John, looking for a light source. "What in the blazes are you?" he said, and would, many years later, cite the question as rude.

"A star."

"A star." Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to walk away without another word. The man was obviously mad.

He heard foot steps behind him and began to walk faster.

"Wait—wait, Sherlock!"

Sherlock whipped around and nearly knocked into John. "How do you know my name?"

"They told me."

"Who?"

John waved his hands vaguely. "The powers that be."

"Mycroft?"

"No, no… them." He pointed to the stars, and Sherlock nearly laughed. Definitely mental. He began to walk away again.

"Sherlock, I know you don't believe me, and you have no reason to—"

"I would say less than none if there really was such a thing."

"But I'm a star. You can do as many experiments on me as you'd like, I assure you that there is no other explanation. And I was sent down for you."

Sherlock's mind is drawn to the image of that shooting star he saw not minutes ago, but pushes it away. What an absurd notion. "Yes, I'm sure you were," he said. "Now, if you don't mind, I really ought to be going home, my family is no doubt very worried—"

"They're not worried at all. They know you, and know that you like being alone, and that you are capable, especially when it's a down time for you and you've just solved a murder. Your mother, though, is no doubt very cross."

He turned toward John again, who stopped just in time. "How would you know?"

"I know everything about you, Sherlock. I was made to. Think of me as your guardian angel."

"Preposterous. Angels don't exist and if they did I definitely wouldn't have or need one."

"I never said I'm an angel. Only like one."

Sherlock frowned. "Alright then," he said, humouring the man. "So you are my shooting star. Won't you join us for dessert?"

"I would love to."

-o-

When they walked in the house, Mycroft and his parents were surprised at John's sudden appearance but not much else. It took Sherlock precisely half a second to realise that they could not see his glow. He immediately went back through his mind, reviewing the day, but found not one trace of drugs. He'd been clean for several weeks, he recalled. To his dismay, his mother adored John with all his (very human) ways, his boring politeness and tedious likeability. His father was likewise enamoured, though much more calm about it, and Mycroft treated John with disdain. That immediately rubbed Sherlock the wrong way, though he couldn't figure out why.

John had given some excuse about his car breaking down some miles down the road and his parents, ever the good Samaritans, offered John a place to sleep for the night, despite Sherlock's protestations (which had earned him a mortifying slap round the head from his mother. He was not amused by John's chuckle of amusement). The next morning, his mother volunteered him to walk John back to his car to see what could be done. There was no car, of course, and when they returned, John simply reported that there was nothing to be done and that they would simply have to take a cab back to the city, where John coincidentally lived. His mother, of course, had offered Sherlock to go with him, as Sherlock also happened to live in the city. Sherlock found himself complying.

"If you are as you say you are," Sherlock said in the back of the cab during their drive home, "You don't really have a place in the city, do you?"

"Seems not," John said with much less concern than Sherlock had hoped for.

"Then what do you mean to do?"

"Why, move in with you of course. Wasn't that obvious?"

And, to Sherlock's dismay, he did.

-o-

It turned out that John had a seemingly endless knowledge of the human body and all of its inner workings. When prompted about it, he reported that, in a previous life, he was an army doctor. "Do all people become stars after they die?" Sherlock had said ironically, still not quite accepting John's story. To his surprise, John's face had gotten very sad and he replied, "Not everyone." It was the first time Sherlock had seen John sad and to his surprise he found that he did not like it, not one bit.

He began to take John on his cases, using John's medical knowledge as an excuse, but over time he came to realise that he simply liked John's company. It was an annoying, and sometimes infuriating reality that Sherlock tried his best to ignore most days. However, to his delight, he found that John seemed to be even more attached to him. He could hardly say no to even Sherlock's most bizarre requests, and even while admonishing him for his apparently abhorrent social behaviours, it was clear that John could not stay mad at him for long. It was a strange feeling, being liked, being cared for—as John did the shopping, most of the cleaning (that Mrs Hudson, the land lady, did not already do, despite her claims of "not being their house keeper"), and all the other errands that Sherlock commanded of him. Sometimes, when Sherlock was exceptionally bored, he would try everything in his power to make John angry. Though, for a while it seemed like a fruitless game as the most John would ever feel was moderate irritation, and that was only towards the more ridiculous body parts in the fridge and once, when he snapped rather violently at Mrs Hudson.

That changed one night in February, when Sherlock needed to infiltrate a drug ring and decided to do so without John. Though he'd solved the case, he'd done so while strung out, and when John found him at the Scotland Yard (despite Sherlock's very reasonable excuses), he was positively livid, and looked ready to slap Sherlock round the face. "You prick!" he'd roared, and while it wasn't the first time John had sworn, it was the first time he'd seemed to mean it. "You bastard, how dare you do this to yourself, how dare you—" And Sherlock had been forced to listen to John's tirade, and it was one of the only times in his life that he'd ever felt true shame. As it happened, John's anger had the same effect on Sherlock as John's sadness, and after that night Sherlock considered the game to be quiet done, and never made an attempt at it again.

By the time they'd gotten home, though, John seemed perfectly fine, if a bit taciturn, and Sherlock was once again reminded of John's extraordinary powers of forgiveness.

John was enigmatic to Sherlock. Perhaps it was the fact that he could never deduce anything about him—it was not that there was nothing to deduce about, simply that every time Sherlock felt close to a conclusion, it mysteriously slipped away from him—but he found that John was ever changing, always surprising, but not in a way that Sherlock would hate, not in a way that would allow John to leave Sherlock and then come back only to leave again. It was in his eyes, his expression, his mannerisms, his sense of humour, and it was all so mysterious to Sherlock, and rather wondrous as well.

It was two years later when Sherlock finally accepted John's story that he really was a star fallen to earth just for him, as all other ideas and hypotheses had been exhausted. When he informed John of his conclusion, it was nine o'clock in the morning on a Sunday and John had smiled and handed Sherlock his toast. It was the best smile John had ever given him, as his glow had been the brightest. Sherlock had learned over the years that the glow changed to reflect John's mood. It dimmed when he was angry, softened when he was calm, and brightened when he was really, truly happy. No one else could see the glow, and despite himself, Sherlock could not help but feel special, like the sole member of a secret society no one else could ever dream of being privy too.

Sometimes he wondered if there were other stars out and about, if he knew any (as it seemed he would never be able to tell). He once asked John, who replied, "It isn't for me to say." Though he tried many times after that to get a proper answer from John, he would never bend.

-o-

Sherlock hadn't realised he'd been lonely until John filled the gap with his unfailing, calm, and reassuring companionship.

There was still crime fighting, of course, still murders and criminal masterminds (like Moriarty and Moran) and people to save, but what little life outside of that had lulled to a comforting domesticity—a combination of words Sherlock had never in his dizziest day dreams thought he'd think. There were weekend spend watching crap telly while slurping Thai takeaway and morning walks in the park where Sherlock would tell stories about the people they'd see—most not very flattering—while John would swat and scold him but not mean it, not really.

Three years after his John (as he'd come to think of him), Sherlock had decided, on a whim, to climb into John's bed one night. John was lying on his side, facing the wall, glowing softly in the darkness of the room. Sherlock simply slipped under the blankets, without a word (he'd decided in the agonising hours prior to making the decision that that was the best way to go about it, the way in which there would be the least amount of smug grins from John), facing away from him. Less than two minutes passed before John turned toward Sherlock and pressed his face into the back of Sherlock's neck, threw his arm around his hip, encompassing Sherlock in his soft warmth, and they had fallen asleep like that, and every night thereafter.

It was a strange and obscure idea to Sherlock, loving someone that wasn't in the way one loved family (and sometimes he wasn't sure if he felt even that), but somehow, in less than a few years, John had literally fallen into his life and made it less so.

-o-

Mycroft rings him while he's on the tube, after searching Moran's old warehouse from top to bottom and coming up with nothing. Sherlock does not even speak, refusing to waste time on any pointless questions.

"I've found him."

"Stop wasting my time."

"Touchy, I see."

"Mycroft—"

"He's just outside the city in a quaint little farm house. I will text you the coordinates."

Sherlock almost asks Mycroft why he hadn't texted him in the coordinates in the first place, but he knows the answer, and refuses to waste any more time. "Call Greg and get the Yard there. Also an ambulance." He hangs up, and in another second he receives the text.

Getting off at the next station, he immediately hails a cab and gives him the address.

"I need to get there as fast as possible." When the cabbie does not respond immediately, Sherlock barks, "Get on with it, man!" and they are suddenly in motion.

Sherlock stares at his watch the entire time, stares at each second ticking away, each second in which he is not with John, is not protecting John. He refuses to think of the possibilities because to him, there are no other possibilities except saving John. Instead, he thinks of the after. Of the hospital where they will patch his John's hurts and make him right again in the few ways Sherlock can't, and then of home, of 221B where they'll make everything better with crap telly and ice cream. And then they'll go to bed like they always do, Sherlock thinks to himself, with John wrapped around him all perfect and glowy with his lips against Sherlock's neck in that way that Sherlock will never admit that he adores in every way imaginable.

It is more than an hour later when Sherlock finally arrives. His nerves on are on fire and he nearly flies out of the cab, flinging what is probably twice the amount of money at the driver. He's in a sort of meadow, complete with a babbling brook and wildflowers, and up ahead there's the farm house, a nondescript, drab affair that looks abandoned but not yet rotted. Sherlock sprints toward it, heart pounding a tattoo against his ribcage. He dismisses the idea of snipers, as it will only inhibit him, and about ten meters away from the farmhouse, he collects two large stones with which he could bash someone's head in. He creeps toward the farm house, listening for sounds—screams, slaps, even (pleaseGodno) gunshots—but there is nothing but quiet and bird titters.

Breath coming short but silent, Sherlock approaches the door and carefully pries it open, all senses on alert for any sign of Moran and his gang of snipers. As soon as he dares, he ducks inside, and nearly collapses as he catches sight of John, his John, lying curled on the floor in a small pool of blood. Sherlock rushes to John's side, feeling more nauseous than he ever has in his life. John's glow is weak, so weak it's hardly there, and he's naked (no doubt Moran wanted all his wounds visible when Sherlock arrived). And there are so many of them—almost all his fingernails have been torn out, his back is layered with whip marks, there are bruises purples his face and some on his throat where he must have been asphyxiated, the slash wound in his shoulder… but the most ghastly, Sherlock realises, is the wound in John's midsection. He hides it with his posture, but the blood makes it clear.

"John," he says quietly and then louder as he takes John's wrist in hand and feels the soft, slow pulse. "John, it's me, it's Sherlock, you're alright. I'm going to get you out of here, alright? John, look at me, I know it hurts." He tears off his jacket and then his shirt, ripping it to strips and gently turning John over. The wound is in his side, not a bullet wound, and Sherlock tries his best to wrap it without hurting him. He knows he's too fragile to move and can only hope that Mycroft called the ambulance. "John, please look at me now, stay with me John…"

John blinks lethargically and Sherlock is suddenly seized with the need to look into his eyes. He gently takes hold of John's chin and turns his face toward him. John blinks twice more and then he's looking at Sherlock, his beautiful, pale blue eyes watery from the pain, and yet he's smiling now, and Sherlock has not seen a more beautiful sight in all his life.

"Stay with me John," he repeats as he presses his shirt into John's wound. "I've called an ambulance, I'll call again, everything will be perfectly alright." His other hand reaches for his coat pocket but John's voice stops him.

"Sher… Sherlock. It's o-okay…"

"No, no, John, I must, they must come—Jesus Christ, why can't I save you—"

"I love you," John whispers in a voice that is too broken. "Y-you must know that, m-mustn't you, you ruddy genius?"

"Stop that, John." Perhaps he would have felt euphoric, had John said it at any other time, but now he can only focus on John and the suddenly very real, terrifyingly real possibility of his death. "You're not allowed to s-sound like you're s-saying g-g-good bye—" Fuck it, fuck everything, he is crying, and why is he allowed to cry when John is dying, his John is dying right here in front of him and he can't do a damn thing to stop it— "Now let me try for that ambulance again, they'll come and save you, you'll see."

"Don't bother," John murmurs, and very slowly—Sherlock cannot imagine the pain he must be in—raises his hand to cup Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock covers it with his own, presses it against his cheek, blood and all. "All stars go out at some point, love."

And then John's eyes begin to flutter shut, and Sherlock is shaking his head and crying big, fat tears that make it hard to see John's face, his John's beautiful face. "No, no, no, don't leave me, John. You're not allowed to." Sherlock wipes away his tears, other hand still clasped to John's, and watches helplessly as John's light slowly begins to fade. "You're supposed to be my guardian angel, aren't you? You're supposed to watch over me, you came down just for me, didn't you? You can't leave me! Don't leave me John, I forbid it, I absolutely forbid it, I… I…"

John's hand goes limp. His glow is gone.

"John," Sherlock screams, and he is in the dark of that farm house, and though it is still evening, the sun hasn't set yet, he has never known anything darker. He sobs now, throws himself across John's body and buries his face into John's still-warm neck. "Come back John, I still need you, please, please…"

They find him like that, sobbing uncontrollably, and they try to pull him away from John's body but it takes several tries, as he's clinging to hard and refuses to let go. He screams and kicks as Greg arrives at the scene and holds him down, yelling at him to calm down, please calm down, Sherlock, but he can't calm down, not when John is gone, when his John is gone.

John's light seemed small in the grand scheme of things, but to Sherlock it was everything, and now it's gone out, leaving him in darkness.

-o-

"It's a mystery," Lestrade says when he walks into the flat. Sherlock is curled up on the couch sideways, wrapped in a blanket that still smells of him. "His body's disappeared."

Sherlock does not even move. He's somewhere else, in a dark night sky where he and John are eating takeaway among the stars.

"In his place, there was this letter. Odd, it was, perhaps he had a relative or friend keeping it for him and didn't know how to get it to you, but that doesn't explain the lack of body and whatnot. We scanned it for prints and opened it to see if there was anything to help with finding Moran, and found nothing, so they let me bring it down to you."

Sherlock does not reply, and Lestrade stands there for a few more awkward moments before leaving the flat. Sherlock waits until after he is long gone before he sits up and reaches for the envelope with shaking hands.

Sherlock,

I cannot tell you how sorry I am that we were only together for a short time. I won't tell you that it was supposed to be longer, because that would be a lie—I had no idea how much time I would be granted to spend with you, and it was not until I met you that I realised even a second would have been better than existing for centuries more and never knowing you.

Please don't give up. Maybe I'm being arrogant, assuming such things, but I thought I ought to say it, just in case. I know, for a fact, that you were meant to be in this world for much longer than your thirty two years. Just think of all the crimes you have left to solve, all the criminals you haven't met yet, all the people you have left to save. They need you, Sherlock, more than I ever will.

For now, you've got to keep living, and living well. I promise I will see you again, among the stars. In the meantime, here's something to keep you going.

Yours until the end of time,

John

Inside the envelope is another envelope, and in this one, there is what can only be stardust.

Didn't really properly check for mistakes, so sorry for any errors. thanks for reading!