Just a little one-shot that I've had in my head for a few days since I re-watched all 3 seasons of Sherlock. Post-Fall, of course. Hope you enjoy it!
I own nothing, I'm just borrowing the boys for a while. :)
Reviews/Comments welcome!
It had been a month and still John couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe he had seen his best friend jump from the roof of St. Bart's. He knew things were bad with the trail, being discredited by the papers. Sherlock always took it in stride, though. The only time he got upset was when he thought John was doubting him. That was his only reaction, but after that John never let himself doubt the detective. So what had happened that was so awful Sherlock saw no other way out than to end his life?
There were other things that bothered him. The funeral was closed casket, supposedly because of injuries sustained in the fall but John didn't remember seeing any real damage to Sherlock's face. Of course, everything about that day was a little bit of a haze to the doctor, so he could have just been seeing what he wanted to see.
Since the fall, the doctor has been unable to do anything than sit in the flat, and mourn the loss of his best friend, to try and figure out what happened. He looked through all of the detective's papers, he yelled and screamed, hoping that something was left behind that he could find. And then he got quiet, barely moving, barely speaking, even to Mrs. Hudson who brought him meals and tea, bless her heart.
It made no sense, the detective killing himself. And now, John begins to wonder if any of it was real. Afterall, Sherlock is a master of disguise and he would know exactly how to fake something like that. But if he did fake it, why not tell him, why not tell John, who could have helped with the whole thing? Why put him through all of this if he were still alive?
Straightening his clothes, John lifts his chin as he looks at himself in the hall mirror, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to come out. They're going to visit the grave today, something that John hasn't done since the funeral, but he feels that he ought to, and he didn't want to let Mrs. Hudson go alone. Glancing over when the door to her flat opens, John turns toward her but he can't summon a smile, so he just presses his lips together and nods to her, leading her out to the waiting cab.
The ride is silent, the walk to the grave side silent, and they stand there looking at the black headstone, no flowers there except for the ones that Mrs. Hudson lays in front of it. John hugs her when she starts to break down, letting her go back to the waiting cab as he faces the grave. "So this is it, then. You're really dead." He says before he takes a deep breath, staring at a tree for a moment as he balls his hands up into fists at his side, closing his eyes before he looks down at the grave, clearing his throat before he begins to speak. "You.. you told me once you weren't a hero. Umm.. there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human.. human being that I've ever known. and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That's so. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much, but, please, there's just one more thing. One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." He pauses for a moment as he stares at the grave, his tears starting to make it hard for him to see. "Don't.. be.. dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it. Stop this." He manages to get out before getting choked up, clearing his throat for a moment as he reaches out and touches Sherlock's headstone for a moment, then he steps back and straightens, squaring his shoulders to proper military stance, looking ahead before he turns with military precision away from the headstone.
"John." A voice whispers across on the breeze, sounding very much like Sherlock, which makes the doctor whirl around in surprise, looking at everything closely to try and see if it's just his mind playing tricks on him or if there's someone there. When he's about to ask out loud if anyone is there, he notices that there's an envelope sitting on top of the stone, John's name scrawled out on the front of it.
Shocked to see it there when it was most definitely not there before, John snatches up the letter and quickly opens it with gloved hands, trying not to drop it or rip the note inside in his eagerness to get it open.
Inside is a simple, cryptic note, written in the writing that John would recognize anywhere. It was Sherlock's handwriting. Hope swelled in his chest as he looked the paper over, and then finally focused enough to read what it said on it.
~oOo~
"The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function." -F. Scott Fitzgerald
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all." - Emily Dickinson
Hope.
~oOo~
It was so simple and yet it spoke so much, a riddle for John to solve. But most of all it said for him not to give up hope. Which means that more than likely Sherlock is alive. He is alive, and he had to fake it for some reason that is obviously unknown to John. It's also something he doesn't want anyone else to know, so there must be something dangerous behind it. Something dangerous for Mrs. Hudson as well.
It's enough to give John hope though. Returning to Baker street, John cleans things up, seeing the good thing about his flatmate there and no longer feeling the need to move out. He gets a job so that he can at least pay his portion of the rent still though Mrs. Hudson seems more than willing to let the other half slide. And every day he looks at the newspapers, until he starts to see the pattern of similar stories cropping up, disturbances on the continent, large criminal organizations being taken down. And that is when he takes a cue from Sherlock.
The wall with the spray painted smiley face becomes his bulletin board, and he puts a map of Europe up, along with every article that mentions the similar stories, tracking where they are on the map until he starts to see a bit of a trail, which makes John happy. For some reason, Sherlock is moving across Europe taking out these criminal organizations.
It's hard to keep hope for two years, two years without a word from Sherlock, but every time John despairs, or the nightmares return about Sherlock jumping to his death, he looks at the note. People think he's crazy but he never gives up hope, even if it might seem futile.
When he comes back from the shop one day after two years, John pauses just inside the door as he hears violin music. This is something that he thought he's heard before, but always turns out to be his imagination. The sound is stronger than anything he's heard before, and it makes him take the steps two at a time, ducking into the kitchen to drop off his bags before he turns to look at the sitting room. There, larger than life is Sherlock bloody Holmes, standing near the window playing his violin. Of course, he knows when he has an audience and he turns, the music fading away as he puts aside his violin, stepping forward in the same sort of suit he's always worn, looking just the same as when he left, if a little tired or a little thinner.
"Hello, John. It seems you got my note. Good job." Sherlock says as he glances at the wall of stories that John had, then he looks back at the doctor with a smalls mile.
Stepping forward until they are close to eachother, John watches his flatmate for a few moments, not sure if he's still real or not. "You bloody idiot." he says before he grabs Sherlock to pull him down into a tight hug, tears forming in his eyes as he presses his face against the younger man's shoulder. "You better have a bloody good reason for putting me through watching you jump off a roof.." he says in a somewhat angry tone that is slightly ruined by the way his voice shakes from grief.
For a moment Sherlock doesn't seem to know what to do, then he puts his arms around his friend and gives him a little squeeze, a small smile on his face. "Don't worry, John. I'll explain everything. It's alright, I'm home now."
