PLEASE READ THIS IS 1/2 STORY READING WITH, OTHERWISE IT'LL MESS UP THE PARAGRAPHS, ETC, JUST MAKE A MESS. I ALSO WROTE THIS IN 1/2 STORY WIDTH. OPTION ON TOP RIGHT, IT'S HIGH SUGGESTED AND LATELY, DESIRABLE
Warning: Dark, angst, tragic, after Reichenbach so Spoilers
Disclaimer: If I owned the show, it wouldn't be as extremely well written.
A/N- Longest one shot I've probably ever written (I usually like to divide them into parts).
If you haven't watched Reichenbach, I suggest you turn the other way, and come back when you're a sobbing mess.
This is my take after the great hiatus. It was originally going to be a fic about John trying to kill himself, but then it resulted to John not being suicidal.
However, I will warn you, this is still a dark fic, you might cry, and it is full of so much angst.
If there are any typo's or missing words, I apologize. It took me 4 hours to write this, from 6am, to 9am. So please understand :\
I'll fix any typos that are pointed out to me.
Please review, any type is welcome, flaming, flailing, cursing, ecstatic sobbing, negative, critic, etc.
And your out on the edge and I'm screaming your name like a fool at the top of my lungs
Needless to say, 221b Baker Street was the hollow shell of its former self.
The boisterous sound of violin playing didn't ricochet against the thin walls and circle the flats living room as its player stood by a music stand and window in the early hours of the morning, pencil in place over a messy music score, notes faded or sprawled, as his thoughts about something else entirely kept him awake.
The smell of decaying flesh and the random amount of chemicals and specimens didn't linger in the air as heavily as it used to.
There was no one pacing about the room in their pajamas or day clothes, grabbing or ruffling at their curly hair, while seething and searching for an outlet from the consuming boredom.
No one to pass on a suggested meal to keep healthy. No low voice to utter the most disapproving of words placed in the single string of a sentence.
But everything remained, save for a few beakers and flasks, and the whatnot of the chemistry utensils that were placed in a box that sat near the table in the kitchen that served as a desk of sorts for chemical analyses of any kind, or to further observe the flesh of a corpse concerning a death stirred from a variety of possibilities.
The books dusted, the old union jack pillow still on the more back rounded arm chair that faced the odd lower back grey seat, separated by a small table, a serving trey with tea for two still placed on it.
Signature skull on the mantle piece, knife still set into the center of ignored letters.
Forgotten laptops, one open, screen blacked out but laptop still alive due to the fact that it was still plugged in and charging. Across from it, as the screen reflected, was a tall bookshelf, a single book sticking out from its place, red and bright, dust collecting atop the spine, in contrast to the rest neatly aligned along with the others in the dark oak wood.
It had been twenty five months.
John realized.
Twenty five months that he has avoided the place all together.
After the incident, he had told Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't go back to the flat, though he wasn't sure as to where he'd stay.
But none of that mattered, not as he stood at the black marble headstone, bare with a birth year and death date, or reason of death, the name Sherlock Holmes neatly engraved, so bright, it's light color strikingly in contrast to its place, and as John looked to it, he wondered if the name would last, rather then eventually wash away like the surrounding headstones.
His words fell on empty ears as he struggled to keep his eyes to the carved name, because he realized, that was all Sherlock was now, his existence left behind on a stone slab, the only thing that even mentioned his once being were the letter carved in it, and John realized, at that very moment, as his voice cracked and he looked away, that he would no longer talk to the man directly, looking up at his pale tall stature, long face, prominent cheek bones and pale eyes under long lashes.
He would no longer look at those eyes, hear that voice, see that face, living, animated, moving as it used to. Now when John wanted to talk to Sherlock, he'd see a name, void of anything Sherlock, being quite the contrary, still, and unmoving.
John's feet had shifted when the word unmoving, so unnatural when it came to Sherlock, reminded him of that his feet, though planted on growing grass, was directly over the body dug six feet under.
As he asked Sherlock to stop being dead, like a selfish sod who didn't understand the concept of dead, and that there was no returning from it, he could care less about where he'd go from there.
He thanked Sherlock, but his heart would grow heavy, chest would constrict as he came to knowing that he wasn't talking to his friend, he was talking to himself, and marble, and grass. He was talking to the dead.
His shaky fingers traced the edge of the stones top, hesitating to pull away, as if, as a result, all that was Sherlock and anything that was left of him would simply diminish and fade, as if this stone was really Sherlock, and he was holding onto him by the finger tips.
John didn't know… Not where he was going, or why this happened… Because he never saw it coming.
Though a fool he was, he honestly believed that he would live a long and adventurous life with Sherlock, even if one left to live a settled lifestyle in a relationship, though John knew it would surely be himself to leave the man behind, he was okay with it, because they would both still be alive, and John would hardly pass up a dangerous run around London, or the world, to just live again rather then be pasted in a seat reading the paper or watching television.
But he never, in his time of living with Sherlock, thought that his friend would succumb to the helpless grips of suicide.
Anyone could ask him, and he'd imply the fact that Sherlock was always running into danger, was suicidal in terms of running head first into a situation with his life on the line for the thrill of killing any traces of boredom or empty running thoughts. Of course he'd keep Sherlock's history with drugs to himself, and how they almost ended his life in the process due to malnutrition and bodily exhaust nearly killing him off.
But if anyone on the face of this cruel and gray world were to ask him if he ever saw the moment of which John had to witness coming, the ex-army soldier would honestly answer, 'No', because Sherlock was never depressed, he was hardly sad.
Sherlock was a man who was always running on pilot, and hardly dwelled in the lurking fields of human emotion. Sherlock was a man who would test death, but never shake its hand unless he himself was the victor. The genius would never want to die, would chose an immortal life if he could, just to run around the world, using his brain, feeding it, giving it games, all for the thrill, the excitement that made him smile, laugh, look alive.
Surely Sherlock would ask him with a rather insulted expression, perhaps appalled, if he questioned John as to why the doctor gave the headstone a small salute after the slew of emotional words of thanks, partings, statements, and pleads.
But John would only answer, through tense lips- 'Because, you don't see it, you don't realize it, but yes, you were a hero. No matter how different you were, Sherlock, no matter how cruel, you saved lives, whisked away on a case to solve them no matter who those in need were. You are in every sense of the word, a hero.'
If Sherlock would then ask him why he nearly cried as he pleaded that this was a farce, John would reply, with a glare, as if exhausted that the genius man couldn't grasp the concept- 'Because, for god sakes Sherlock, you were my best friend! And I hope that I was at least a good friend to the end. I cared for you, worried over you.' You were the man who changed my life. 'Because I was so lonely before I met you. 'You saved me, Sherlock.' And I owe you so much.
But Sherlock wasn't here, and he didn't need to respond to questions.
John didn't even know when he started walking away, trying to place that steady step of a soldier as he walked away without the slightest waver. All he saw, as his eyes scanned the area, looked to the ground, was Sherlock, his face, his expressions, the way he moved when he spoke, bored or when an epiphany hit him.
The more he remembered, the more he silently begged that this was all just a joke, the more his heart sank, the less he found himself breathing, holding his breath, as his mind ran, as his gut fell full though empty, and the more alert he became, in the sense of feeling as if he had slept for days as the world around him faded.
He had not slept, he had not eaten much or at all since. Sleep was a joke. Because just like the nightmares of the war plagued him prior to living with Sherlock, which faded in the duration of time, now John had dreams of the fall.
He remembered one, as he woke, screaming Sherlock's name, hand out, arm outstretched, reaching out towards the ceiling. He had dreamed that he made it to the roof, and Sherlock was facing him, begging that John stay back or he'd jump. And John would try to convince him to come towards him, that everything would be fine. But Sherlock thought otherwise, the foreign panic on the pale mans features settling, every wrinkle on his face flat, expression stoic, and rather then fall face forward, Sherlock would take a step back, and tilt back off the edge, arms out, eyes looking to John then towards the sky as he fell.
The was the third situation out of plenty. Others were of John watching, just like that day, but with different results. Sometimes John never tripped against the bike that cut him off as he crossed the street, and he'd make it to Sherlock as the man let out his final breath, hand twitching for a second before going limp.
And then, sometimes, the Gods would be so cruel, and the end of the dream would result in Sherlock coming to his senses and stepping back from the edge, and he would either wait for John to come up and guide him downstairs, or he himself would return to John below.
Even those, with a happy ending, were nightmares. In fact, they were worse, because in the dream, his heart would flourish as butterflies swam in his stomach, overjoyed, happy, calm, at rest knowing that Sherlock was not going to fall. But that feeling would suddenly wake him as it became too real, and he would realize, through startled parted lids, that he was staring at the ceiling of the guest room at Harry's or Mike's, his breathing calm unlike the nightmares in which Sherlock landed. And then, his face would contort into pure agony once he realized that Sherlock was dead.
And he'd cry, without shame, and no one looked at him funny or asked him how he was doing after the sobbing episode, because they knew.
Maybe the couldn't relate, but they at least knew, and respected the mans privacy and reasons when it came to losing himself and shedding any piece of pride that even somehow lingered.
Now he stood at 221b, in the old flat, empty and quiet save for the life outside the windows.
The sun cascaded down, angling against the ground as the rays of light hit down against the living rooms windows, a dance of dust visible, lingering in the air. And he wondered, as he watched it, if any of that dust had the remaining of their once living there, since Sherlock had once mentioned that dust was also the dead skin of a human body as it flaked, so one should swipe at it with ungloved fingers.
And as twisted as it sounded, John wondered if within the piling dust, Sherlock remained, flaked, in scattered pieces around the flat.
He stood however, rigid and still at the doorway.
He didn't dare go to his own room, or Sherlock's, or the bathrooms, or into the kitchen to venture the most likely empty fridge, or to sit in his seat, not yet.
He wanted to stand and stare, observe every inch, begging that his mind register that he was there, and that this was not an illusion, or a dream, that he was there.
And he had all the time in the world. He could turn away and return two days later, maybe a month, or another eighteen months, and all would remain in place. Mycroft had 'gifted' the flat to John, as an addition to his pointless apology.
But no, John decided, he'd come to 221b Baker Street after twenty five months, after two years and one month, he decided that enough was enough. That he had to come back. If not to cope, then to grab his things, and just run out the door and never look back.
There was an awful groan that came from the floorboards as his shoe slowly moved to take a step forward. It almost echoed in the unnatural silence.
His head turned, looking at everything, consuming what he saw.
He reasoned that the other decision to return was because he was utterly afraid. Of what? Of forgetting.
The internet held no interest.
After the incident, news spread like wildfire. Sherlock was a sham, never a true and proper genius consulting detective, but rather a criminal that paid to seem utterly intelligent by enforcing others to create cases. That his deductions solely depended on prior research, to every precise detail. Not only that, but John's blog was titled a fictional tale.
For the following months, pictures of the two were slandered with insults, only a miniscule amount of their viewers supporting them, but dying out as the other end won with harsh words and utter bullshit.
And thus, the tale of Sherlock Holmes and doctor John Watson was a fairytale.
John avoided any media. He avoided the world. And he no longer worked, Mycroft also paying off anything he needed as an addition to his extended apology, as if hoping John would accept it, as if he needed reassurance that all was forgiven in order to cope with the fact that he unintentionally led the death of his brother.
So what was John truly afraid of forgetting?
It had been nearly two years since he had last scene the face of Sherlock Holmes.
He solely depending on the face by memory, on the voice, on the body language, by the flashes of the cases in his mind.
Sherlock's face wasn't in picture frames, his voice wasn't in video or audio recordings, not even a voicemail machine. If John wanted to remember the adventures, he'd just look through his blog entries, because he had thankfully disabled any comments, which perhaps saved the will to keep his blog alive, if not, decided that today he'd look into it and perhaps read a story or two.
So he wasn't afraid of forgetting the adventures, because that was all written, and to be honest, John could never forget the running, the screaming, the laughing, the pure genius that was Sherlock Holmes and the mere presence of him in the room.
As of late, Sherlock's face became somewhat blurred, and the tone of his voice was off. John's brow would furrow as a flash back would come to him, and he thought that memory Sherlock's voice was maybe a pitch too low, or too high, or just didn't have the edge it would have if he said something like this, or that.
But there was nothing he could do about the voice. The voice was nothing he could see, or find. The was lost with Sherlock.
And last he heard of that voice was when the man was shaking and crying, the usual tone was broken and cracking, so supernatural, so not Sherlock, and that was what John was left to remember for a remainder of the time, the memory plaguing him forever, and yet the voice was changing, making it difficult for him to plant Sherlock's calm tone, bored tone, angry tone.
But the face…
John was now standing near the laptop that was left open the day Sherlock was arrested- he had been looking into the networking system, trying to catch signals of a third party. The camera that was also sourced still sat near the keyboard, the lens angling up, facing anyone who would sit in the chair, just as Sherlock had left it moments prior standing to be cuffed.
He looked away from it, the sudden memory making his mind swim, his chest go dense with an unrelenting thickness, muddy and foggy. It took him just about every bit of strength in willpower to pull the chair a bit farther back in order to sit into it.
He hesitated, feeling as though taking his place on the chair would remove any ounce of Sherlock that was in it, the last person who sat on it.
Taking a deep breath, with the light shake of his head and pressed lips, John took a seat, hands instinctively resting on the keyboard of the laptop. As if repulsed, he looked to his hands before managing to look to the black screen, realizing that with a simple nudge on the mouse pad, or press of a key, the screen would come to life.
And then what? He wondered. What would he see?
A small comical whim came to him, telling him that Sherlock would have left some note laughing at his lack of observing skills to find the missing pieces to this puzzle, and that in filling all the gaps the full picture and truth would be found, and that he was waiting in some house three regions away or in Germany.
Or, John's blood ran colder, it would be what was last up, the list of available wifi networks.
Time passed, he didn't know much, didn't care. He didn't care if the sun set and he sat in a dark cold room staring at a blank screen, glaring at his reflection, until he just became nothing but a corpse.
But his body decided otherwise, and out of some embedded reason, out of reflex, his thumb scrolled across the mouse pad, and the screen came to life.
He could hear the whir of the fan as it worked to power the laptop, could see the shade of black go darker then lighter as the screen loaded, finally shinning brightly with a log in screen.
A small breath of relief escaped him, realizing he had held it in out of pure suspense. He logged in, trying to get passed the thoughts of what he might see on the screen following. He entered his password, and the mouse displayed a loading circle.
The screen blanked out again, going dark before loading. And once it did, the white nearly blinding him, he chocked a sob, his breathing hoarse as he tried to settle himself, lecturing himself as he looked away from the network connections screen.
His forearms rested along the sides of the laptop, hands gripping, flexing and loosening, head hung, as he tightly shut his lids, praying that the screen just go black again. But he realized that was a pointless favor that he'd have to wait almost an hour for.
Cursing himself lightly, he looked up and scrolled the mouse towards the red circular x, closing the screen. The box tunneled away into it's place in the task bar, and he found that his background was still bland and boring, nothing special, nothing different, nothing that Sherlock was paying any mind to when he loaded the networks.
No internet pages were open either, and he found a great comfort in that.
Loading his primary internet choice, he quickly clicked onto the url bar, his fingers ready type the title of his blog with a fiery quickness, but his hands hovered over the keys, his right middle finger lightly pressed against the J.
He looked to the screen, the blinking bar coaxing that he continue, but his mind warned him with just one letter, a list would come down, and he'd have to scroll to pick his website.
He wondered if it was even still running.
With a large intake of breathe, he sighed as he typed out 'John', looking the keyboard as he did, tapping on the down arrow which directed him to his blog.
It took awhile, his heart hammering with fright, in both seeing it, or seeing it run down, the adventures with Sherlock, written forever gone, and he wouldn't be able to take that. He'd lose it.
But thankfully, the page loaded, logged off, and he watched as a third party, the first three and last posts visible.
At the bottom sat his entry titled 'The Hounds of Baskerville', which described the ridiculous and emotionally dramatic adventures of a fake monstrous dog and a group of scientists whose names were anagrammed as H.O.U.N.D.S. He remembered how he wrote it out by simply reading out the first sentence, regretting as he read how he wrote Sherlock out to be hyperactive, rude, arrogant, and a pain in the ass…
He could remember what was in it, like the dangers of the situation, the ridiculous and random sudden interest Sherlock took on the case, and that he was thankful for that because in the end it was an important case, and it saved the life of a younger man who was driven into the spiraling madness of a lie. John also remembered that he had written out Sherlock's episode, his fear, something he had never been witness to prior the Baskerville case.
John also realized that he didn't include any of that, his description of Sherlock's every expression to every word two posts above it.
His jaw clenched as he looked at the post above it, the words so playful, cheerful, he could almost hear the mans bubbly cruel psychotic voice in the words, that John had been hacked, and that he apologized to the two for doing such a thing, posting a video as he broke into their flat and still had the audacity to talk poorly of its every crevice.
John looked away immediately only up towards the final post above it, simply titled 'Untitled', his jaw flexing again as his body went rigid, tense as he realized how he didn't write much at all. Not that it could be expected of him. Not only did he not have the strength, and hardly does he now, but he couldn't put in on a blog that no one liked, that everyone despised, in memory of a man that was labeled a hack after victim to suicide.
He scrolled down the page, in search the post far below it, passing the other cases and tid bits of their amazingly strange life.
There he found it, posted August 12th, titled 'Hat-man and Robin'. He scrolled the mouse over the title, allowing it to hover.
Two years, his mind reminded him, it had been two years since he had seen Sherlock's face other then in his head.
But that's why he was here. That was why he decide to come from such a long way to look at the picture of a man on his laptop rather than anywhere else, almost as if this was more fitting, or safe. Under what standards, John had no answer to that, because there were a million reasons whisking by as the question came to mind.
He clicked it, the page quickly loading the images and his words, the new page revealing so many scans of old news paper prints of which when the public loved them.
He drew out a shaky laugh as he looked to the poorly taken picture, making Sherlock look odd in every sense of the word, John behind him, hardly caring to hide his face as he faced away from the flashing and lenses, defiant smile on his face, proud that it had come to this, his blog not just some other nothing in the web, but a gripping consistency of articles about the great Sherlock Holmes and his rather plain ex-army doctor friend John Watson.
'The Web Detectives', they read in large bold print, a 'net phenomenon'. And Sherlock looked completely and utterly afraid in every picture as he tried to hide himself.
A laugh escaped John before he realized it, and the sound pierced the silence, stunning him for a moment before the finger hovering over the mouse pad rested onto it again to scroll down to the thing he was mostly afraid of seeing now. He didn't realize how much his hands were shaking, or as to how badly his teeth grit until his jaw relaxed, the crown of the teeth in the back of his mouth aching.
The comments. He read. The comments is what he'd have to see next, needed to, but he knew, as the page slowly scrolled, that he'd try to place a voice to the words.
'You don't suppose correctly.'
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 07:32
John stared at it, long and hard, re-reading it, as if trying to break it, as if it were so cipher.
His lips pursed lightly, as he fought the urge to cry.
As if distracting himself, he looked at the comment above, remembering that it was Sherlock's reply to a request for an interview. He glanced at the ones above it, where he told his sister he was going to see her after drunk typing a comment to the entry. He then looked back to Sherlock's comment.
And it hit him.
John re-read it, over and over, in futile attempts, even tried scrolling down the page to read the other comments.
'He died. End of story.'
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 10:22
John scrolled lower, frantically, distraught, in attempts of finding a solution.
'Still not interested.'
Sherlock Holmes 15 August 12:17
John sat still, staring at the screen but seeing nothing, the words becoming blurs. It wasn't until the reason for his vision rolled down his cheeks that he realized that he was crying at realizing his horror.
He could no longer hear Sherlock's voice.
He could no longer remember how it sounded. He couldn't place the timbre, the edge, the cockiness, the callousness. It was gone.
"No no," He whispered, he pleaded, almost lecturing, losing his temper with the webpage for no reason, as if blaming it for forgetting the voice that settled him, that amazed him, "Come ooon." That angered him, that humored him, that taught him, and brought him a strange comfort at realizing….
"God please no…"
At realizing that, in the presence of the man, the voice as solid proof that he was around to save him from his loneliness, was no longer within him.
"Don't do this to meeee…!"
It was gone.
Whatever remained wasn't Sherlock, it was the idea of what he was, not the real thing, not even resembling it. And it horrified John upon realizing the reality of the situation.
Sherlock was disappearing.
Sherlock Holmes was leaving him entirely.
His eyes briefly focused on the screen again.
'He died. End of story.'
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 10:22
If Sherlock could see this now, he would roll in his grave from the simple irony of the situation.
Sherlock words typed, remarking death, rather off-handedly. And although John knew Sherlock was most certainly not referring to himself, it felt as though was uttering indifferences in John's face, as if telling him to stop being such a sob and to realize the truth and that pending on doing so would lack any logical reason that would allow further involvement in John's still living life.
"Shut up…" John whispered, head falling, hands still perched on the laptops keyboard. His lids tightened shut as his body shook, as he breathing came out in harsh shaky breaths, as sobs racked him. "Oh god!" He sputtered into the hands that came to cup his face as he began to cry. "Shut up Sherlock. Shut the bloody hell up!" He yelled at the comment, as if it were written seconds ago, to John, as if his lack of apathy could somehow engulf John's heart.
But Sherlock lacked no apathy that day. He begged John to stay, to watch, yes, but he also asked for forgiveness, told John he owed him, begged that John keep his eyes fixed on him, as he cried and reached out as if to keep John from moving.
"Shit!" John gasped as the sobbing took control of his body, as he doubled over, face hovering over the keyboard, body shaking. "God no, Sherlock why, Sherlock." He muttered into his palms, wet with tears and saliva as his voice broke and he moaned. "Tell me why, please." He begged through harsh sobs, that broke his words in breathes.
The episode lasted for only a few minutes before he regained himself, trying to bring back that stoic expression.
Finding no need in trying to wipe his face with his messy hands, he placed them on his lap in a sloppy mess as he leaned into the seat, staring at the screen. "Please…" He whispered towards it, staring at it, his emotions, so strong, beginning to sink into the depths of nothingness, as he began to dim into nothingness again. "Sherlock…" He whispered. "Please tell me…." He pleaded.
But to what exactly, he wasn't sure.
Please tell him, what?
Please tell him why he jumped rather then ask John for help? Or as to why he decided that suicide was the final solution to the seemingly final problem in Sherlock's head? Why did he make John watch? Or perhaps to please tell him it was all a well played lie.
Slowly the darkness began to eat at him like it usually did in these situations.
The world around him didn't matter, but it didn't cease, it just blurred. Whatever he looked at wasn't there, his vision dwelling in his mind, swimming, swaying. His breathing long and uneven, sometimes stopping. No appetite, no thirst, no need to move.
John was falling again, and worse during the moment in between his first and last time visiting the flat.
It was just like the day he returned to sit in his chair, as if waiting for news from the hospital, that Sherlock had somehow lived after landing face first against the pavement.
As if Sherlock would climb the stairs with boisterous broad steps to tug his scarf and jacket off enthusiastically with a stupid grin on his face, knowing that he fooled John with an awful joke.
But John knew better, and even through the psychosis resulting from pure shock, he had seen and registered the state that Sherlock was in. A deep impact spot in the right side of Sherlock's head, blood leaving the left ear as a result to impact, shattering his skull, blood leaving his lips, nose, the blood from his ear stretching out like thin branches over parted eyes.
And god, those eyes.
They haunted him no matter what memory.
Sherlock's eyes had been empty, but they still held that amazing shade of grey. However, that wasn't what John noticed when he looked to the still face of his friend.
It was the fact that those eyes stared at him, looked to him, as if he knew that John would be reaching out to him, sitting at this side as he looked at the corpse, moments before impact.
And then, like always as a result to the running thoughts, John's body shut down, and he sat, completely hollow and still, eyes open, hardly blinking, as he stared at the screen white color rather then what was on it.
It took all that was in him to come back from within his mind-
All the strength he could build in the minuscule muscles in his eyes-
All the will he could somehow create-
To come back to the reality of it all when he noticed that he had somehow changed the screen through his daze, now on the screen was a post of two months later, written December 19th, titled 'The Six Thatchers'.
He didn't read the words, rather, didn't pay any mind to them, because next to the first two paragraphs, staring back at John, - with all his usual magnificent air of defiance-, the picture defining him so well under that stupid hat, were the greenish-blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes, a shadowy edge reaching them due to the hats front brim blocking the light above, masking the hue of their true color of magnificent pale blue.
John sat up in the chair, slowly, his head forward as he edged towards the screen, nearing it, his dark eyes scanning every inch of the being in that picture. And he found himself swallowing heavily as he tried to control another fit of tears.
"Sher-…" He whispered towards the picture.
Looking down to the mouse pad, realizing he didn't want to force himself any farther, he looked to the screen with lightly pursed lips and reached up with his right hand, grabbing at the laptops face that stood up, ready to shut it down and make the page disappear.
But he held his grip in place, reminding him that Sherlock had left the laptop open, that this was the final state of it, this is how it was left before the….
He cursed, coaxing himself to just shut the damn thing already, telling his mind that he had faced enough for the day, promising it that he'd come back to remind it of Sherlock's face, or that he'd go to the headstone, but he failed to promise himself of the voice forever lost.
Finally his conscious decided that, yes, John Watson had had enough for today, and his tense grip loosened, the fluidity of the movement almost graceful, but coming to a full and complete frozen stop.
"I had always hated that picture."
Yes, John remembered. Other than use for a joke or blackmail, not that the latter was needed, John disliked the picture. Because although it had Sherlock's stony fixated gaze, it was not Sherlock at all. The man didn't belong on the internet, his picture swimming around in the web. Much less under a stupid deerstalker hat.
A small smile formed on John's lips as he remembered making fun of Sherlock, the younger man nearly crying in his complaint, wanting John to get rid of every scrap of picture of his existence if not face from the internet- but of course, John just wafted his hand and let out a small laugh directed at Sherlock's childish behavior.
Now he hated the picture, as if his prior use for it was repulsive, as if he was making fun of Sherlock Holmes, who couldn't even retort in his defense.
A sigh. "But." A pause. "I didn't think that it would get through the surprisingly untrusting hard exterior that one tries to sculpt and engulf themselves in and force someone to not only heave, but sob!" A note of mocking.
John's mouth slightly fell open, then closed, his dark eyes looking to his hand that held the laptops face, still lightly angled, nearly closed. His brows knotted, and if words could describe his expression, it'd be a mixed use of horrified, confused, and dawning, perhaps broken.
Broken perhaps, because his mind was being cruel again, enforcing this delusional belief that someone was there, someone other then himself.
And it was no longer just in a voice, but now it was in a shape, in a physical attribute, in a form, in a limb.
John stared at the hand that held his wrist in for a few more moments, before removing its grasp slowly, gingerly, and grabbing hold of the laptops face, lifting it up, the page of his blog still there, and John's eyes could only stare at the white, the jumbled mess, the picture.
There was a heaviness, the appalling fact that there was a presence there, beside him, behind him.
As the laptops screen angled upwards, and John realized not by his doing, the figure that stood behind him bowed, chest and neck mere inches over John's shoulder, head forward by a few but above John, a chin near the top of John's head, the figure standing beside him, attention fixed on the screen.
"Really John, is it such a horrid picture to cry over?" The voice asked.
But John didn't look up as the voice observed the picture, questionably, though it was obvious that he was joking, knowing full well that the pictures level of acceptance had nothing to do with his tears.
The presence stepped away, distanced itself, and it's form became full, tall, dark, expensive dress slacks, uniform suit coat, cuffs of the undershirt under the sleeves covering the pale wrists as his hands were thoughtfully held behind his back, walking away but towards the sofa against the wall, under the yellow graffiti of a shot smile, neck slightly craned as he looked towards the ceiling. "Well John if you're done sobbing over something as pathetic as a poorly taken and ridiculous photo I suggest you gather yourself, because it has been far too long. Long enough. And must I add that in my hiatus I have managed to settle and fix all the trivialities left behind by that insane buffoon," The voice paused as it spat. "Thanks to the guilty conscious of my brother, who by the way also fell for the final act- so don't feel so bad that you did too John-, and now I am allowed to work on cases as presented to me by Scotland Yard." The figure rambled, voice low. It's body tipped lightly before turning its head to face John who sat still, staring, mouth slightly open, face a mess. "Now, the question of the hour is, my troubled friend, piss poor excuse of a veteran, and my trustworthy loyal blogger, are you ready to face the worlds life risking dangerous adventures again?"
John stared, body slowly moving, edging into the seat as he tried to balance himself out of it, to come to a stand, to approach the hallucination, not sure whether he should be ecstatic that he could not only hear Sherlock, but see him, even though it wasn't real, the way he moved, the tone of his voice, his sanity had finally cracked, and here he was, standing in an empty flat with his imagination.
He reached out as he approached the figure, which only stood in place, watching John's trembling hand as it gripped the taller, darker, pale mans sleeved upper arm with a rather uncomfortable gaze.
As if reality had taken a swing at him, as John's fingers tightened, his head snapped up to look at the taller mans face, who still looked to John as if slightly repulsed by the contact.
"Sher-…" John whispered, then glanced to his grip before looking at the face. "Sherlock?- But- No- This can't be- You can't be-" His breathing came in short. He then became frantic. "You can't- You can't be real! I- You- Sherlock he- You fell- I saw- You landed- And the pulse! Sherlock- He had no pulse- this…" He didn't realize he let go of the taller man, arms limply at his sides as the other held him tightly by the shoulders, leaning in, eyes darting, observing John's eyes as the shorter began to lose the strength in his legs.
The man held him as he steered John into his arm chair, who incoherently blabbered as he sank into the chair like a corpse, his body losing any strength.
"But…" John looked up, watching the imaginary Sherlock walk away after making sure he was settled, reaching his own low, grey arm chair. John tried again, shaking his head lightly to get a grip on the words. "But you were dead… I saw you fall. You made me watch!"
The taller who was taking his seat visibly winched at that, John making it sound worse then he thought it probably was.
"I took your pulse. I heard the sickening crack of you skull, of your body, as you landed."
"Are you implying that I am a hallucination?-"
"Well then, what the bloody hell are you then?" John interrupted, shouting so loud his throat immediately regretted it. He leaned into his seat, pinching his nose. "I'm dreaming, aren't I? I'm gonna wake up in that shitty twin bed at Harry's, and it's all gonna happen again..."
Imaginary Sherlock seemed interested, face curious. "What's gonna happen again?" With a flow of darting vision, he settled his eyes on John's face, full well knowing what he meant, the restlessness, the lack of sleep apparent, added wrinkles, bags under the eyes, sunken cheeks, poor complexion. "Ah, normal reaction to shock." He suddenly said, referring to John's continuous rambles to the falsehood of the situation. "But I know you John, it'll sink in, in due time of course. You're smart enough, more tolerable, and a Doctor at that, otherwise I'd never keep you as a flat mate, so tired of the idiots out there making life so problematic in a dull way with every sense of the hateful word."
John only stared, watching, wanting to believe, knowing that he was unable to spur such words so quickly in his current state, even to a hallucination. "Sherlock?" He whispered, hands on his lap as he leaned into his seat. "Sherlock, is it really you?" He tried with a bold edge, but failed miserably.
Sherlock only smiled in return, that smile that described Sherlock's ego in every which way. "Was never known otherwise."
John seemed to be fishing in his head as it swayed, before settling.
Then, with a sudden change of expression, "You ass!" He shouted, glaring at the man who sat across from him, all elegant in the usual pose he took to when sitting in his own armchair.
Sherlock's brows furrowed as he turned to look away, eyeing the chimney before looking back to John, clearly not accepting the form of welcome, displeasure slightly etched in his somewhat smooth face. "Well, it's so nice to see you after so long as well, John."
I don't wanna be down. I just wanna feel alive and I hope I'll be able to see your face, hear from you again.
But instead you just left me with an echo, with my shadow..
Sometimes, in the past I would close my eyes and pretend that everything was alright.
But it was never enough.
Because you were my only friend...
And now you're back...
A/N- WOOZA I manage a happy ending.
Sorry if the writing gets bad towards the end or confusing, I've not slept since yesterday, and I'm writing fic at 9am, and the suns out, and.. yeah. I'm burned out.
Please remember to review, with anything, even your gross sobbing or hate. I need some other Reichenbach survivor buddies/writers.
Also, am thinking about taking prompts. They're fun!
Until the next fic! Appreciate this one though, school's got me in circles, dunno when the next one will be. (pft, probably in the next few days, maybe)
Thank you for reading! I hope you liked the end.
LA'ERZ!
Story info:
Title: Echo
From: Echo by Jason Walker
Beginning and End lyrical/poetic italics re-written by me to fit the story, but still follow the lyrics.
I survived The Fall stamp.
Story started: 6:30am, officially finished: 10:04 A.M, 1/16/2012.