A/N: Felt like doing a oneshot. This is the result. Have fun!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
*(See below)
Come to Me
John slumped into an armchair, emotionally and physically exhausted after his trip to Sherlock's grave. He was so tired, but trying to sleep only led to long periods of intense sobbing, and his eyes were too dry and desolate for tears to be an easy feat. For what felt like hours, John sat and thought of a friend now far beyond his reach. His phone began to chime. He let it ring out. Again it rang, and he let it ring out. The third time, however, a sigh escaped him, and he answered.
"John? John, is that you?"
No. No. No, it couldn't be. He was dead. There was no way it could be possible. "Sherlock?" John gasped, silently begging to hear that voice one more time, even if it was just an impersonation.
"Yes, John. It's me."
"Sherlock, how? Y-you're dead. I saw you. I saw you fall!" John shouted desperately, grabbing at his hair.
"Would you believe they have a phone service in heaven?"
"H-heaven? You made it to heaven?"
"Is that a tone of disbelief I hear?"
"No, no!" John choked, sitting down heavily. "I just- There's a heaven. You're in heaven."
"Yes, John."
"What's it like?" John asked, sinking further into his chair.
"It's different for everyone."
"Then what's it like for you?"
"You'll have to wait and see, John. I wouldn't want to spoil it for you." A beep. "I'm afraid my minute is up, John. But I'll call again."
"You promise?"
"I promise, John. Goodbye."
"Until next time, Sherlock."
The line went dead but John kept the phone to his ear, holding it there until it was well and truly dark. He was grinning insanely, butterflies dancing desperately in his stomach. Sherlock was alive! Spiritually, of course, but that was enough. He could call John. They could talk. He wasn't alone because he had Sherlock to talk to. He would've opened the window and sung it out to all of London if he could, though his body suddenly realised how sleepy it was and refused to let him up, even to make his way to bed. He slept peacefully in his armchair, a smile on his lips. But it wouldn't last.
Come to me.
John rocked himself back and forth, pressing his hands over his ears to stifle the ever-present ringing of the telephone. His laptop lay open, refusing to turn off. His mobile chirruped as another text was received. Mrs Hudson had given up knocking on the door, but the lack of it had not made it quieter. A sob escaped John and his head ached so badly no amount of aspirin could cure it. There was nowhere to hide now; Sherlock's words chased him wherever he went.
Come to me.
At first, John had welcomed the calls. They were his last link to his dead friend. But they had quickly turned terrifying. Sherlock had started making requests, little things at first, but then more demanding. He had warned John of plots against him, of betrayal and lies. The people close to him, who he had thought friends and family, wanted him to suffer. And he had grown paranoid with Sherlock whispering in his ear.
Come to me.
He had locked himself in his apartment, afraid of everyone. They lied to him. They took Sherlock away from him. It was their fault. If they hadn't been so stupid, Sherlock wouldn't have died. They took away his friend. They took away his only friend. He was alone because of them. They chose to believe Moriarty, a criminal, over Sherlock. They had mocked him and bullied him and stamped him down. But Sherlock had risen each time, too bright and brilliant and beautiful for their muck to hide. But then he fell. And finally he stayed down. Sherlock Holmes, the brightest man of the age, extinguished. It was all their fault.
Come to me.
On the fourth night, Sherlock asked John to do one more thing for him. Just one more thing. He wanted John to go to his bedside table, pull out his gun, and put a bullet in his brain. "I'm so lonely, John. Won't you come to me?" he crooned.
John had refused, and Sherlock had hung up. When he called again the next night, his request was the same. He even sent John a text. 'Come to me. I need my blogger.' And again, John refused. This time, Sherlock persisted.
"You owe me, John. Without me, you were alone. Don't you want it to stop? I'm the only one can you can trust."
"I- I can't, Sherlock. Please, don't make me."
"They will betray you, John. There's nothing left for you there. Come to me."
John hung up this time. For the past three days, Sherlock had hounded him, begged him, demanded him to do it. He sneered at John's excuses, shrieked at him. But the whispering was worse. It was seduction. It was manipulation. And John wanted it. The longer he tried to deny it, the more his hand would stray into the drawer, lovingly caressing the gun that lay there. It was unbearable. He didn't understand why he couldn't just end it all. Something in his chest, deep beneath the grief and loss, told him something was wrong. Sherlock would never ask him to do this. But then, Sherlock had asked him to do many things. Why was this any different? What would stop the detective from asking for this? Perhaps heaven was boring, or maybe he just missed John.
Come to me.
John stood up, afraid of the sudden silence. The computer screen was blank. Both phones were quiet. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, his mobile let out a chorus. He shouldn't answer. He should ignore it. But he didn't. "Hello."
"John." Sherlock breathed. "John, I need you."
"Why?"
"Because I love you."
"You do? Really?" John whispered, throat dry.
"Yes. Come to me, John. Come to me so we can be together."
"All right, Sherlock. I'll do it for you." John said blankly, the fight rolling from his shoulders and replaced with resignation. He had nothing without Sherlock. He was nothing. Why not end a pointless game? John opened the door to his room and marched to his drawer. Without hesitation, he pulled out the gun and loaded it. Placing it against his forehead, he closed his eyes with a sigh. "I'll be there soon, Sherlock."
Come to me.
*I also don't own Supernatural, which spawned this fic. And I'll put it in crossover later.