A/N: This is definitely my longest piece of work, as of right now. I couldn't seem to stop writing it. Anyway, this was intended to be a one-shot, but I might continue it to make it a two-shot, or maybe something longer. I'd appreciate any feedback, if anyone is willing to give any.
Rain pelts the scene as he drops to his knees, tears filling his eyes, tracks marring his cheeks, whimpers uttering from his chapped lips. The pulse is nonexistent as his two fingers are gently, yet urgently, placed on pale wrists.
The only sound: the blood rushing in his ears; the rain droplets thrumming wildly; the deafening silence. His head bows, grazing the body's chest as sliding tears drip from his chin and stain a crisp, blood-soaked dress shirt. His fists pound the ground lividly as hands of multiple bystanders try comfortingly helping him to his feet.
He refuses.
He shuts down.
All he sees is bright highlighter yellow race and carelessly sling the body onto a stretcher, hurriedly. Nothing registers as he looks onwards, expression void, mind crashing and burning and withering all at once.
Words are inadequate to describe the feelings. No murmurs slip from his lips. His wide eyes stay fixated on the, now, departing ambulance as civilians pull him to his feet, roughly. Red and blue flash in the fog as wheels skid and trucks depart. His shaking and unsteady fingers flex and curl, raised limply and uselessly in the air, grasping at nothingness.
The vivid nothingness that surrounds him.
He stands stiffly over the grave, staring blankly into the distance. A bouquet of flowers is grasped fraily, yet tightly, in his hands. A mound of dirt and a black tombstone lie before him, but he's not looking. His cerulean eyes stay perfectly still, peering at a large oak tree, leaves swaying harshly in the breeze.
Even as the old woman approaching him from behind grips his shoulder gently, his eyes do not move. His head does not turn. His brain is not processing. He just stands.
"Are you alright, dear?" the old woman asks, tilting her head inquisitively. The younger and stiff man still does not budge.
"I'm...I'm...angry, Ms. Hudson," he says with foggy eyes, voice rough, almost too hoarse; too deep.
"Oh, yes, I know, dear; he was always messing about! Going off on all those cases, always experimenting, shoving dead specimens in my refrigerator. He was so frustrating sometimes..."
"I'm not angry for that, Ms. Hudson," the man cuts her off as his eyes finally fall to the grave obscuring his gaze. He grimaces at the bold letters.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
The lady kindly stops talking and squeezes his shoulder before walking off, leaving him to himself.
The stems of the bouquet he is grasping abruptly snap. Purple and red petals slowly drift down to the soggy ground, looking like feathers caught on the wind.
He doesn't seem to realize until he shakes his head frantically, but slowly, and takes a meager two steps forward.
Silence hangs in the air, only sound permeating being the not so subtle wind rustling through the trees.
"I just want you to know that you were the best friend I ever had," he starts as he stares desolately at the ground. "You were the cleverest and wisest and most brilliant person I ever had the good fortune of meeting." He bites back a sob and sniffles softly as tears start forming in his eyes.
Stepping even closer to the grave, he utters,"But I want one last miracle, from you to me."
All is silent, as if the whole world is fervently waiting for him to speak.
"Please...," he starts desperately, breaking into unashamed tears.
"...Don't be dead..."
He drops what is left of the flowers onto the soil, patting the tombstone as he bites and licks his lips. As he treads away, not giving the stone a second glance, an ominous figure gazes at the scene. His cool colored eyes follow the man, rivulets of water pattering down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, John...," he whispers past his unruly locks of hair.
Then, with a dramatic flare of his coat and whip of his scarf, he's gone.
-'Goodbye, John...'-
He winces as he rolls over, hand splaying over his face.
-You always say that! Why? Why goodbye? Your bye wasn't good, and I wish it could've been.-
His mouth falls open, twitches slightly, and now he's shifting to the other side of his bed.
-Don't.-
He shivers.
-Get off that building! You can't do this; not again. One time was bad enough. I want you beside me, not caught in the wind and on a roof with a phone instead of a friend.-
His breath hitches as his hand grips his chest, crinkling his shirt and leaving marks in his flesh.
-No; no, no, no, no, no, nononononono...!-
His head is rolling around, and his eyelids are twitching, like he's trying to wake up, but he can't quite bring himself to do it.
-Why, Sherlock? Why did you do this! How could I have been so stupid to not notice the signs?!-
A whimper escapes his mouth, and now sweat is beading on his head and slowly creeping down his cheeks.
-You weren't happy, were you? Now you can't be anything because of me and it's all my fault and now there's red and it's mixing with the rain and your blood is flowing and I'm crying and your laugh was so brilliant and now it's fading and Idon'tknowwhattodo!-
His arms spread out in a position quite ironically reminiscent of the way Sherlock looked when he fell, and now John is heaving and his breaths are shallow, rapid.
-'Goodbye, John...'-
His fingers flex as he reflexively curls into a ball, swatting hysterically at the comforter covering his legs.
-Make it stop! I'm not-I can't listen to you anymore! You're gone and I wish you weren't, but you are and I can't hear you. You're a ghost and I won't wake up to the violin anymore and oh, God...!-
Now, there are tears dribbling down his clammy cheeks and sobs coming from his lips.
-SherlockSherlockSherlock...-
Suddenly, his heart beat ceases.
-SHERLOCK!-
Then, he bolts up, looks to the side, and finds that he's woken up alone again. Breathing shakily, he quickly snatches his phone off his nightstand to see the bright and blaring symbols reading 4:32 AM. He glances to his curtained window, seeing not even a sliver of light seeping through. He's awoken to darkness again.
Can't there ever be light?
His blue eyes stare solemnly and blankly down at the table he sits at, mouth downturned in an ingrained frown. His fingers and feet stay oddly still as he silently examines the grains of wood of the table. Leaning on his right hand, he waits indifferently for the arrival of his dinner.
Idly picking up his glass of wine and swallowing a shallow sip, he makes a revolted face. He licks his chapped lips and just stares, now switching his gaze to outside.
Why? There's always that simple question; why? But, then again, why is so vague. When you really divulge what why means, it's one of the most difficult questions to answer. Because you can't possibly know why everything happens or happened or is about to happen or why things just are the way they are.
He sighs a prolonged and heavy sigh as the waitress finally arrives with his food.
"Thank you," he grumbles, almost inaudible, and it seems the waitress didn't hear as she huffs irritably under her breath and starts speed walking away. Staring down at the delicious looking entree, he suddenly doesn't feel hungry.
He, hastily, rises from the booth and speed walks to the toilet, forcing the door open harshly. He opens a stall and vomit surges from his mouth in a torrent. His eyes begin to water as he places his pale palms on the floor for support. He stops momentarily before turning paper white and starting over again with even more intensity than prior.
Breathing harshly and falling backwards, he lifts up his arm for the lock and unclicks it, door swinging open. He, slowly and unsteadily, rises from the floor, leaning on the wall for support as he inches out of the stall. Venturing shakily to the sink, he stares in the mirror to see a man whom he doesn't recognize. Green spittle is on the edges of his mouth, his face is still pale, and his hands are trembling with such intensity from the ill feeling blooming in his stomach.
After cleaning himself up, composing himself, and trying to stop the tremors, he makes his way back to the table. He slides into the booth and turns to gaze out the window in a blank type of way.
He's startled as a foot brushes his, practically kicking him to get his attention, and he looks across the table to see a man with a menu covering his face. His hands start quivering even more as he flinches away and tries crawling out of his booth.
"John," the man starts firmly,"come back?" He says it as a question, voice softening near the sentence's end.
He turns, eyes wide and arms slack, legs limp and lip quivering.
"Wha..what...who...?" John stammers at hearing the man's voice. He knows it sounds familiar. Sounds so familiar, but so foreign: so unknown.
-'Goodbye, John...'-
"Hmmm, haven't been eating much, going by the fitting of your jumper...," the familiar(?) stranger drawls.
-'It was all a trick...'-
"What?" John tries to ask again, but his question comes out merely as an odd noise, product of his confusion. Product of his sorrow. Product of his hesitant hope.
-'...a magic trick...'-
"Sit, John," he says, menu never leaving the front of his face. Although John has a bad feeling, he slowly crawls back into his spot. His teeth chatter softly, breath caught in his throat. He doesn't know whether he should feel sad or mad or scared or hopeful or anything because this could all be a dream, and he could be sitting across from merely a ghost, talking aloud to a whisper in the wind.
-'I researched you...'-
"Who-who are you?" John asks with a soft, wavering voice. He's starting to get annoyed with how much She-the man- is ignoring his questions, although he's too fearful to let his irritation show. Too fearful that he'll end up waking up in an empty bed and this will all be gone. He still won't be around.
-'Goodbye, John...'-
The man lowers the menu, ever the slightest, as he says,"Your friend, John Watson."
-'Goodbye, John...'-
His chest heaves.
John freezes completely, even his shaking hands stopping their jitters, and his breath catches again, audibly this time. The phrase sends shivers down his spine, raises goosebumps along his arms as he leans farther into his seat.
-SherlockSherlockSherlock...-
The man's gloved hands slowly lower the menu, at last placing it neatly and promptly upon the table.
-SHERLOCK!-
John's eyes begin to water. He feels as if he's going to vomit again.
This can't be real...he's not here...only I can see him...no one else...he isn't here...
-Sherlock...-
Sitting before him is the man he's been, allegedly, grieving over for the past two years. The man he's been dreaming about, lying tattered and lifeless on the asphalt. And here the prat is, as if he's got every right to be sitting in front of John after all this time. The man's icy eyes pierce John with intensity and ferocity, yet softness and compassion, and the gaze is suddenly making John very uncomfortable.
And angry.
And sad.
And, frankly, he thinks he's gone insane.
"...Sher...Sh...Sherlock," John breathes softly, confused.
It's him.
"No...you're not real, and I'm not real...," the blogger heaves, trying desperately to breathe properly. "This is all a dream, and I'll wake up in the early morning with no one else around...you're just a ghost, and I won't listen to you..."
John just barely catches the way Sh-the ghost- flinches at his words. He feels oddly satisfied that his words in this dream have finally affected the detective's cold facade. And suddenly, the satisfaction is replaced with a sickly sinking feeling as he realizes just how much hurt he can see in the ghost's eyes.
John feels as if he wants to cry. Or yell. Or maybe both.
"No, John! I'm real, in the flesh, as you are. You're not in your right mind!"
John is pretty sure the figment of his imagination is trying to reassure him, but the statement feels scripted somehow. These words have played out far too much in his head that the genuine ones don't seem real. Everything's a dream...
He wants to embrace him, but at the same time, he wants to strangle him, no matter if he's real or not. The anger sizzles and bubbles, veins popping from his forehead. Sher-He looks blank for a moment before John's bottle of anger uncaps, the rage winning him over.
He lunges forward, gripping the sleuth's scarf with a feral expression, drawing the attention of surrounding customers. John clenches his teeth as he pins the detective to the wall and his whole body starts shaking from the rage.
Sherlo-The spectral- stays perfectly still, a void expression adorning his face. He huffs and puffs from the tight grip John's fingers have on his throat. "I'm...I'm sorry, John," he rasps with soft sincerity. He hadn't wanted it like this. He had not wanted to pretend to be dead. He hadn't wanted to leave John in the dark. He hadn't wanted his best friend to slip through his fingers. He had not wanted this meeting to go as such; he wanted to just hold John in a hug and let it be okay. At least let him think that what he had done were forgivable acts. "Just think about it, John...you can feel me; I can't be fake..."
Suddenly, the doctor remembers all of the nights Sherlock visited him in his dreams, and he tried to hug him, but his arms would meet cold air and wrap around nothing.
Every. God. Damn. Time.
John stares into what he still thinks is a ghost's eyes with a hesitant and questioning gaze, as if looking for an answer in him, unsure of his conclusion.
He looks into those eyes and sees confirmation; confirmation that this isn't a dream, no matter how unrealistic it seems. Sherlock is here, with veins and a heart that's pumping blood through them, and John suddenly feels drained, anger slowly fizzling away to nothing. He lets go of the scarf as he backs up and waits for his friend's hollow and raspy breathing to subside. Sherlock lifts up, removing his palms from his knees, and stumbles forward to be caught by John.
"John, I know this is a bit not good, and I know you're not fine. I know you still probably think-"
"No, I'm not fine...," John grates out, and Sherlock forces his head upwards at the crack of his voice. His fists are shaking fervently, and of course the insufferable git just has to notice everything.
"You're shaking," he concedes ratherly needlessly, and John feels the need to bite out an ironic,"Obviously", at the statement, but he suddenly sees the anxiety etched into Sherlock's face, and he refrains. After only a moment of tense silence, John realizes that Sherlock is quivering, sweat beading and dribbling down his forehead.
"Sherlock...," he breathes out, because this isn't usually how his dreams go.
"No, John," he sighs, holding out his hand as he frantically shakes his head. "I know you're..." He trails off. "Not good," he continues, cut off by John's indignant scoff.
"Oh, pray tell: how can you tell I'm so 'not good'?" the blogger grates out; more like breathes. He's half curious, because he actually wants to know how easy it is to tell he's broken. Sherlock never answers his questions in his dreams; it's just falling, falling, falling.
At Sherlock's hesitant look and questioning eyes, John says, calmer,"Sherlock...please, let me know..." Except, now, John really isn't so sure he wants to know anymore. What if Sherlock actually answers, this time?
Either way, Sherlock goes on.
"You've lost...roughly twelve and a half pounds since our last...meeting. Tired bags under your eyes; sign of sleep deprivation. Your hair is tussled, your facial hair growing...hmm...unruly. Not to mention-"
And as Sherlock goes on, John discerns the change of the tone of his voice, the way the hesitancy leaves and is replaced with the infallible confidence of logic. The detective's tight lips relax slightly, his shoulders slacken, and now a satisfied smirk is forming on his lips, so John assumes he's finally finished.
Maybe he is real...
"Brilliant," John mutters, and although he means it, he must sound unconvincing as Sherlock's smirk falls away to be replaced with another hesitant look. The doctor tries to smile at the ghost(?).
He can't quite curve his lips.
"I waited, Sherlock. I waited, and I waited, and now...here you are. No more waiting for me, I suppose," he babbles and, now, there's something in Sherlock's eyes akin to concern, maybe hurt.
He looks so real...
"John...?" he breathes, and the soldier realizes it's a question more so than an utterance or a statement. He can't remember a time Sherlock has uttered his name so breathlessly, so uncertaintly.
Maybe I am still dreaming...
John gazes at the taller man, searching his pallid face for...something, then he goes stiff, and merely nods for his friend to commence.
But words or questions or statements don't follow John's nod. He feels slim arms wrap around him, and a head nuzzles, almost burrows, into the crook of his neck. Suddenly, everything seems real, and John can feel Sherlock's arms around him, finally, and Oh, God, I've been waiting for this for so long...!
"You don't have to wait anymore, John. I'm back, and I promise I'll stay-"
Can't you see you've already broken me, Sherlock?
But he must've said it aloud, because he feels the detective go rigid around him and heavy, nervous breaths against his neck and disheveled hair.
Sherlock pulls away after a moment, and John can safely say he isn't expecting to see tears clinging to his friend's eyelashes.
Now, he's positive this really isn't a dream; Sherlock never cried, never has. Not in real life, nor in his dreams.
Well, he admits he wasn't expecting his own tears either, but he can feel rivulets of water sliding down his nose and chin. Before they can drop down, Sherlock's tentative fingers are brushing them away.
John doesn't say anything, and neither does Sherlock, for the longest time. Then, the detective is saying something softly, too softly for the blogger to hear. It sounds like something close to,"I didn't mean to...", but John is too exhausted, too disbelieving, too broken to care.
Then, Sherlock is speaking almost too loudly, like his voice is trying to compensate for his previously whispered words. "John, I don't...understand...what you mean..."
If John was someone else, he wouldn't have bothered to comment on the boffin's statement, but he's Dr. John Hamish Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes, most definitely not someone else. And most definitely not dreaming.
"But-" he cuts himself off, words too choked at the moment to get anything past his throat. "You're supposed to understand...everything. Why can't you understand?" John can hear the pain in his voice, feel the tremble of his bottom lip, but he tries to shake it off, if only so Sherlock can't see him this vulnerable.
"I-I-how are you broken? I don't understand? Why did you break? I never took into account the possibility that I might not be the only one to break-"
And Sherlock stops abruptly, trying to silently take back the beans he's just spilled, but John knows exactly what those words entail. Sherlock cares, deeply, sincerly. He thinks I don't care about him... The admission nearly makes him vomit again. He was just as broken as I was, John hears in his head, and he feels like such an utter fool. How could I have thought he didn't care? How could I have dreamt all of those scenarios where he didn't care what happened to me?
But now's not the time to dwell on the revelation.
"Hey, hey?" John snaps his fingers in front of his friend's clouded eyes, trying to draw his attention back and stop the cryptic murmurs falling from Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's head snaps up suddenly, accompanied by the returning emotions in his distant eyes. "It's...well...it's not alright, Sherlock. But I'm willing to forgive, maybe not forget, because I don't think my mind can ever forget..." They both wince. "I want us to still be friends, and I never want you to leave. I never want to have to leave..."
"And I really hope I'm not dreaming...," he chuckles grimly, his voice hoarse and laughs choked.
John looks up at Sherlock to see that the detective isn't looking at him, his head turned to look out of the fancy restaurant window. There's a tautness the doctor can see in the boffin's usually impassive face.
"I'd like it...very much...if you could forgive me, John, and I'd like to tell you...er...a-about it, if you're willing to listen, of c-course..."
John flinches.
He's never heard Sherlock so hesitant, never heard him stutter and slip over his words so much, and he silently decides that this is wrong. Sherlock isn't meant to stutter; he's meant to be brilliant and confident and arrogant and insufferable, but never like this.
"Hey, stop that," John admonishes, and the detective gives him a perplexed look before he realizes what the doctor is referring to.
There's a heavy silence for a moment before Sherlock plops into the booth and says softly,"Are you happy to see me...?"
John scoffs at that, but Sherlock must receive his response as negative and flinches as he continues to tap his fingers.
"Of course I am, you insufferable git," John concedes. This time, there's a smile on his face, a genuine one that pulls tightly at his lips from their disuse. Sherlock looks to John and sees his smile, and suddenly there's a small grin on the detective's clammy face.
Sherlock never lives long enough to smile in my dreams...
"I'll always be happy to see you...," John mumbles quietly, his intent for only himself to hear it. But Sherlock's ears perk and his grin widens at the admission. Yet, the man doesn't refer to John words, just seems happier at them.
John slides into the booth opposite his friend, grasping his glass of wine and taking a slight sip. He still feels too sick to eat anything, but he figures now's his chance to get Sherlock to eat something, at least a little bit, if this really is real life. The soldier pushes his plate of chicken parm forward until it presses into Sherlock's folded arms. Sherlock turns his head to stare inquisitively at John, having to tear his gaze away from the couple he's staring at. Must be deducing, John thinks to himself. Just like always...
"Eat," the doctor demands firmly, yet softly, eyes darting to the plate of food caught in Sherlock's scrutinizing gaze. The boffin glances up, the look in his eyes clearly shouting,"You want me to eat this? What do you take me for?"
John just glares at the detective, an answering look in his eyes. "Just eat it and stop complaining," the blogger's eyes communicate, once again glancing down to the dish of food.
Suddenly, all the fiery defiance in Sherlock's eyes drains away, and he shakes his head as he sighs in conformity. Grasping the knife and fork from the rolled up napkin, Sherlock slowly, looking quite sulky, cuts a piece of chicken and places it tentatively in his mouth. I could never get Sherlock to eat in real life.
Next thing John knows, a quarter of the chicken breast is already gone, another square of meat being shoved into Sherlock's mouth.
John glances incredulously at the detective, but if Sherlock catches the blogger's glance, he doesn't look up. Shaking his head vaguely, trying to hide his smile, John turns his head to glance out of the window by his side. Black splotches blur by as taxis race around, the cab drivers being yelled at by their passengers. All the doctor can hear are clinks of silverware and inane small talk in the background as he breathes in deeply through his nose, closing his tired eyes. Sherlock was right; John is tired. Exhausted, really. I guess this isn't a dream? Why would anyone dream of being so tired?
"You should sleep more," Sherlock scolds softly, placing his tableware on his plate with a clack. John gives him another incredulous look before turning back towards the window.
"And you're one to talk, Mr. 'I-sleep-every-three-days' Holmes," the soldier responds, only half-joking. The boffin huffs out a brief chuckle before rising from his seated position and leaning against the booth.
John looks at him quizzically, gripping the side of the table with white knuckles. Why's he leaving now? Why would I dream of him leaving?
He must really be here, right?
"You coming along, John?" Sherlock questions, flipping up his coat collar and adjusting his lavish scarf.
"Ah, to where, exactly?" the blogger asks as he rises from his seat, cane left, forgotten, inside the booth.
"Why, to a crime scene, of course-"
"Wait; you saw Lestrade before me?" John grates out, and he realizes he sort of sounds like a jealous boyfriend, so he quickly shuts his mouth. He also realizes that Sherlock never mentions anyone else in his dreams.
Sherlock actually looks offended as he replies hastily,"Of course not, John! Don't be daft: while you were potentially daydreaming and gazing out of a window, I was texting Greg for a new case. By the state of his texts, he was quite flustered by my messages."
Anger draining away dramatically at the explanation, John quips,"Well, yes; people tend to be flustered when their dead friends, oh, I don't know: aren't dead."
"Bitter much, Dr. Watson," Sherlock smirks, and the soldier supposes he did sound a bit bitter.
"Like I said, Sherlock: I waited for you."
And that's all he says as Sherlock seems contemplative for a moment. Probably cataloging my comment for later analyzation, John chides pessimistically.
"Soooo," the boffin drawls, shifting and bobbing his head to spot a taxi outside the window. "What's it going to be?"
John remains silent for a moment, the answer right on the tip of his tongue, still debating on his response. He glimpses the shit-eating grin adorning Sherlock's face as he continues his thought process. Stupid git, John thinks, why can't your face be as expressive as mine? You can obviously tell I can't refuse.
"Oh, who am I kidding: I couldn't turn down a case, even if I wanted to."
The arrogant grin turns gentle at his response, but John still worries that maybe there's an alterior motive behind this whole 'crime scene' outing. Still worried that he'll wake up in an empty flat.
Sherlock is smiling so much. He doesn't smile in my dreams.
"Come on, John!" Sherlock shouts enthusiastically, their conversation continuing to drawn the attention of bystanders around the restaurant. "We've got a murder to solve. The game is on!"
And with that last phrase leaving the detective's mouth, Sherlock's soft lips are flush against John's chapped ones, only feather-light and gone in a second.
No!? This has to be a dream? Sherlock would never kiss me; he only ever does it while I'm dreaming him.
But, whenever I was dreaming, his lips could never touch mine; they were always airy and cold and there was never warmth, like there is now.
John's whole body freezes, except for his hand inching up to his mouth, his fingers brushing dazedly against his lips.
"Hmm, very chapped: haven't been using your chapstick, I see."
"Wh-what?" John fumbles over his words, desperately trying to wrap his head around what just happened.
Why does this feel so real when it just can't be?
"Licking your lips sure isn't helping," Sherlock scolds as John glances down to his mouth. Was I really licking my lips? Why would I dream of Sherlock noticing me licking my lips?
But then, the kiss comes back to him, and his dumbfounded expression is back in place, his mouth agape and eyes wide, and he forgets all about licking his lips.
"Come on, John: I'm not going to wait around all day! Are you still coming?" Sherlock practically whines, a hesitant smile on his face and genuine hope glinting in his eyes. John stays silent for only a moment before he's striding up to Sherlock's side.
"Oh, God, yes..."
With that, he grips Sherlock's bony face in both of his small hands, and he repays the detective's kiss with his own, except this one is passionate, and he's in control. He can feel the warmth in his lips again, and it feels so good to have a live body beneath his touch instead of an etheral one.
Pulling away after a few moments to the sight of Sherlock's bruised, puffy lips, the doctor grins at the boffin's dazed expression. For once, he's caught him off guard, The Great Sherlock Holmes: surprised.
"Well, come on; I haven't got all day," John smirks, and Sherlock starts forward with his stride double the gait of John's. Really, the soldier doesn't mind that he looks like an eager puppy nipping at Sherlock's heels: onlookers can compare him to whatever they like. He'll continue to follow Sherlock to the end of the world, if that's what it takes, and he knows Sherlock would do the same for him.
This can't be a dream; it's clear, now.
Suddenly, the detective's long fingers are gripping John's, and as the doctor glances up to see Sherlock's flushed face, he lets the grip on his anger slacken. Oh, you inconsiderate arsehole, damn you! Why's it so hard to stay mad at you, even though you're infuriating? You were gone for two years, for Christ's sake!
Sherlock never held my hand in my dreams: I always held his.
In a flash, a peck is placed on his cheek and Sherlock is striding away, leaving John limp at the restaurant's exit. He hears muffled snickers from inside of the restaurant, multiple couples amused at Sherlock's idiosyncratic antics.
You beautiful, insufferable, imbecilic arsehole. Why did you do this to me?
And now, all the happiness he's feeling is gone, and the tears are flowing freely down his face, and in his mind the tears would turn to red. Then I'd realize the red was coming from my head, ebbing and flowing, but it would remind me of nothing, and I wouldn't care that it did. I'd realize I had been staring through the barrel of the gun, and how my ears were ringing, but I wouldn't mind.
I have to be dreaming...this can't be real...
Then, John is on the ground, head brushing against the asphalt as he hears the restaurant door swing open, and feels the hands. Claws, gripping him, like after Sherlock jumped. The hands are gently prying, just like before, and John finds the prospect of blood in his eyes all the more appealing.
Then, all the red is gone, and a slender hand is pulling insistently at his shoulder, trying desperately to pull him up. John would know the hand anywhere.
Sherlock...
"John!"
The doctor wrenches the detective's hand off and jumps away, trying to gather his wits, to form his thoughts, but too many people are staring and he's gasping and heaving. Suddenly there doesn't seem to be enough oxygen anywhere and his hand is trembling, convulsing, reaching for Sherlock.
It's a dream, isn't it?
But then, as soon as John's fingers grasp Sherlock's, all the thoughts start to dissipate, and he's left with a numb feeling in his limbs. He forgets the way his blood looked red in front of the window, the sunlight cascading down in brutal shades of scarlet. He forgets the cold Browning placed flush against his skull, and the fervent tremor in his hands. There is no wound, or pain, or numbness, or bloody-cooper taste on his lips.
This is real...
Just Sherlock.
"Y-you left...why: w-why did you leave me?"
John knows he's whining, sounds so needy, but he can't help it when his chest is hurting so badly. Sherlock is kneeling beside him, face shifting from emotion to emotion so quickly that John can't process it. He's flustered.
"I thought...I thought you were following me; you always follow me," Sherlock says, and the soldier winces at the hurt evident in his friend's voice. John can feel Sherlock's hand through his baggy jumper, placed on the small of his back and rubbing soothing circles. His other hand is now on the doctor's knee, gripping him tightly by his teared jeans and pinning him to the ground. This has never happened in a dream, he thinks, leaning into Sherlock's oddly gentle touch.
"You-you can't leave...again, alright? Promise me, Sherlock?!" John whimpers, and he can see something about Sherlock's face morph, but he can't quite put his finger on it. Then, it seems blatantly obvious: there's guilt pooling in his stormy eyes and affection pulling at his tight lips. John's doesn't no what to feel. Doesn't know what to think.
"I promise, John," Sherlock confirms as he nods his head. Slender fingers unfurl as Sherlock's large hand is in front of John's face, allowing him to pull himself off of the cold pavement. Short fingers reach for the detective's as John hoists himself up and vaguely brushes slight debris off of his jacket.
Suddenly, the blogger can feel gentle drops of water pelting his head, and he looks up to merely see ominous rain clouds and no sun in sight. The scent of wet cement filling his nose, John glances to the boffin to see Sherlock staring directly at him. There's...maybe not complete adoration, but something akin to it, on the detective's usually stone-cold face. John isn't quite sure why, because he's fairly sure he just had an embarrassing breakdown in public, including sloppy tears and lots of yelling.
This is real...this is real...this is real...has to be...
Abruptly, John reaches his hand back to Sherlock's hand and grasps it, stepping even closer to him. Out of shock, Sherlock stumbles a bit backwards before he catches himself. He snakes his arm around John's back, reeling him into his side, whether trying to support himself or help John, the soldier isn't sure.
Gripping the detective's long coat with his free hand, still holding Sherlock's hand with the other, he steadies himself, wobbly as he pulls away slightly. Still having a clamp-like grip on the boffin's hand, he glances up at the detective's face to see something like confusion, an expression which John thinks doesn't suit him. He's never shown this much emotion in my dreams.
Has to be real...
"Why are you holding my hand, John?" Sherlock asks, sounding vaguely detached from himself, like he's merely an onlooker in the situation. He's trying to analyze me; find a motive.
"Because, I'm not going to let you run off again, you prat," John mumbles with a slightly joking tone, gripping Sherlock's hand tighter. He feels the bristle of the detective's navy blue scarf whipping in the wind, tickling his left cheek. Sherlock's grip on John's waist tightens as he grunts awkwardly and glances at the blogger.
"Err, John? Lestrade is expecting us."
Sherlock's deep, silky baritone interrupts John's moment of blessed silence, but he finds he isn't too mad at the interruption. The day is too beautiful for him to stay angry for long. He's too happy that this is real to possibly be mad.
"Come on, you git," he starts, pulling at Sherlock's gloved hand with a small, fond smile. "Let's go."
Sherlock smiles back as he breaks into a sprint, pulling John along next him. All the while, both of them are clinging to each other, hands intertwined, and for once, John decides that he won't mind if people start to talk.-!**********!-
He bolts up, sweat coating his head and dribbling down to slip onto his chest. The incessant ringing continues as he glimpses his nightstand, slowly and shakily reaching out for his phone. It reads 7:00 AM, and John heaves out a ragged breath, falling back down onto his bed. He slumps against his headboard, scouring his room until his eyes land on the window.
No light, again.
It was all a dream.
A terrible, horrible, oh so realistic dream.
He leans down and pulls open his night table's drawer. Not a moment later, his hand grips something cold and he unearths it from the confines of the drawer, smoothing his other hand over its sleek surface.
Still trembling, John raises his hand to his mouth, momentarily tapping his fingers against his lips. His muscles slacken, and his mouth falls open, dry and hoarse against the nippy air. Suddenly, there it is in his mouth, frigid, the metal biting into his teeth and tongue.
Click.
It's loaded.
The muzzle is pressed against the roof of his mouth, fitting perfectly between his lips. His finger is pressing ever so gradually into the trigger.
Then, the door bangs open, and if he were anyone else, he would jump and his finger would slip. But he's accustomed to the feel of a gun as he lets it fall from his lips.
So close...
There's Lestrade, standing in the doorway, his pistol drawn and ready to be fired. His hands aren't shaky, albeit his face looks fearful. Anxious.
Next thing the doctor knows, the D.I. is in his personal space and snatching the gun out of his hand, forcefully throwing it into the bedside drawer.
"What the hell were you thinking, mate?!" Greg growls, and John can tell that the detective is far more disappointed than angry. Sorrowful, too.
"If Mycroft didn't have cameras in here...oh, God...," he mumbles, and the soldier supposes he wasn't thinking about the cameras placed all around, spying on him. The decision was a spur of the moment type of one, and he's actually glad for Mycroft's invasive personality.
If Greg hadn't come, and there weren't cameras in here, I would be blood and guts splattered on the floor right now...
He needs to throw up again, but this time, he's 100% sure this is real life.
"Uh...if I hadn't been out early for a case; if I hadn't been close by...oh, God..."
John realizes this is the second time in as many minutes that Lestrade has sworn God's name.
He doesn't blame him.
"Were you thinking at all?" Greg says softly, rhetorically, gaze turning to the curtained window. As John's eyes follow the detective's movements, him opening the curtains and letting light filter through the room, he grimaces at the gun he knows is in the drawer beside him.
"...No, I wasn't..."
Stupid...I'm an idiot...
"Can you take it?" he questions, gesturing vaguely with his hand to where his Browning resides. "I...I don't want this to happen again...," he trails off.
Greg just stands a moment before nodding his head and sauntering to the night table, opening the drawer and confiscating the weapon. He clicks the safety on before pocketing the firearm and replacing his own gun in his holster. Gripping the belt loops of his jeans, Greg turns his head from John, to the window, to the door, then back to the soldier.
"I'd offer to take you out for a pint, but I guess that wouldn't be the smartest thing to do," he chuckles dryly, sitting on the end of the bed. John glances up and shrugs his shoulders in indifference.
"Don't feel much like drinking anyway," John informs, looking back up to Lestrade's face.
He looks...tired.
"Yeah...just...I don't know what else to offer...," Greg sighs, his brown eyes weary with despair. He fiddles with his tie as the blogger looks up to the ceiling, idly counting the scuffs on its surface.
"Then don't offer me anything," John responds, Lestrade turning to look warily at him.
Abruptly, John's mobile vibrates on the nightstand, signaling the arrival of a message. He quickly glances at Greg, who simply nods, before picking up the phone and pressing its power button. Opening up the messaging app, he sees the new message displayed, attached to the contact name.
His breath hitches.
Don't do anything stupid, John.-SH
"Who's it from?" Lestrade asks, causing John to flinch at the unexpected noise. His eyes flit from the mobile's bright screen, to Lestrade, then fall to the window.
Slowly, hesitantly, he says,"...No one of importance..."
He clicks his phone shut.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed!