The Ghost Of YouWARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS. SUICIDAL THEMES! Ghost!/Memory!John/ Sherlock.
Sherlock Holmes was not crying. He defiantly wasn't, he said to himself as tears began to drip down his face. Stop it you ridiculous man! He chastised himself, squeezing his eyes shut. John's face appeared before his eyes, his mouth calling his name.
"Sherlock?" that desperate, questioning, breathless, whisper, the final thing that had escaped his best friend's lips, before his eyes had gone blank, lifeless, dead.
Sherlock's eyes flew open, the bloodied and bruised form of John seared into his mind, as Sherlock pounded on his heart, desperately trying to restart it. Another single tear dripped onto the photo of the two of them from Sherlock's eyes. He wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes locked on his flatmate's smiling face.
"John... JOHN!" his own voice echoed in his head, screaming the name that he wanted to keep screaming to the walls of 221b. He had for days after his death, Mrs Hudson with him, the woman's fragile arms wrapped around his thin and still coated shoulders, her face pressing into the back of his neck, tears dripping down the smooth skin there, her whimpered cries of the same name providing a perfect echo of Sherlock's desperate screams.
Then suddenly she'd stopped, her cries ceased, as did the shaking of her tiny but strong arms. Then she disappeared in a puff of tea and face powder, the only thing remaining that even suggested her presence had been there being the lukewarm tea and the tears, cold and wet on Sherlock's skin.
He snuffled, wiping his puffed, red eyes on the back of his sleeve, and getting slowly to his feet. His feet, warm from being folded underneath his poised body, screamed in alarm as his skin touched the cold, wooden flooring of John's room. His eyes blinked, his feet moving automatically into the familiar yet foreign room, void of any sign of life – of John. His eyes focused on John's desk, the laptop upon it powerless, dusty and untouched for months.
A memory, one that should have been long deleted passed into his mind, John crouching over his laptop, typing in his ridiculously slow way of his, cup of tea in one hand hindering his rate even more. But Sherlock had been focused on his feet, nothing special, just feet, covered by his navy blue stripy socks (Sherlock had often wondered if everything he wore was stripy), wriggling on their own accord. John had spun in his seat nearly dropping his tea in alarm, as he'd noticed Sherlock's presence.
"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing? Don't sneak up on me like that!" he'd half laughed/half shouted. Sherlock had merely shrugged, crossing the room and capturing John's lips in his. One of the many times that he'd silenced John's incessant babbling with his own lips. John had groaned his body immediately tensing beside Sherlock's, gently caressing Sherlock's face before pulling him with intention towards the bed. They'd spent the rest of the night, in each other's arms, the still tanned and worn skin of John, contrasting beautifully with Sherlock's smooth, ice white skin. They remained looking, simply looking at one another for hours after until John finally fell into a sleep, his arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist, hooking them together in the way that he always did.
His eyes flashed to the bed in question, another memory creeping to the surface. John had crashed through the doors to his room, Sherlock in his arms, half complaining of the bumpy ride that John had given him and half because his coat was soaking from the downpour that they'd gotten caught in, causing his twisted ankle to ache painfully below him. He was practically dropped on the bed- John quickly taking his sodden coat from him, dropping the object to the floor with a wet squelch.
"You idiot Sherlock- you utter idiot! You jumped out in front of a car, you jumped out in front of a car driven by a suspect ,who was not going to stop, he could have killed you, you fucking idiot Sherlock, what the hell would I have done if he had killed you?" John ranted, tears flying from his eyes in sadness and frustration. Sherlock leant forward, ignoring the pain that stretched through the sprained, muscles in his ankle, grasping John's contorted face in his hands.
"John" he whispered, holding his friends shaking form still. John batted him away, his eyes furious, before softening as he saw the hurt look on Sherlock's face. He stilled, breathing heavily.
"Please don't do that again Sherlock, you frightened me half to death, when you were just lying in the road, I thought he'd- "he broke off. Sherlock clutched his hand, rubbing circles into the top of it. John leant against his throat, small sobs echoing through his body and into Sherlock's.
John's face lifted after a few moments, causing Sherlock's piercing eyes and features to look down at him in confusion and sadness. In a movement smaller than a twitch, he raised his face and gently pressed his soft, warm, lips against Sherlock's cold chapped ones. Sherlock started in surprise, causing John too hastily pull away.
"Shit- Sherlock... I'm sorry, you just, I mean- you scared me today" he stammered as Sherlock stared at him perplexed. There was a moment's awkward silence as Sherlock realized what John had just done.
"You- you- kissed me" he whispered. John whined, holding his head in his hands.
"I know- I know, my body just sort of took over my brain for a moment" he groaned. Sherlock frowned.
"You're bi-sexual?"Was the only thing his brain could ask. John's face shot upwards.
"Yes...- really, that's all your going to say or do. You're not going to punch me or tear me down with a sarcastic retor- "his babbling was cut off by Sherlock's lips on his.
"Hmmmmmnnnnggg?" John moaned, the pitch rising into yet another whine as Sherlock pulled away, gently kissing his jaw-line.
"You talk too much John" he murmured against the soft skin there. John snorted, before it morphed into a moan, as Sherlock's tongue brushed against his pulse point.
"You can talk..." he muttered" causing Sherlock to chuckle his deep laugh as he captured John's lips with his again.
Sherlock sat down on the bed, still thinking about their first, second and third kiss. He ran a hand through his hair before lying on the bed where he should have been with John beside him. The pillow was cold, sanitized and cleaned from where his dear Watson had bled out beneath him. Sherlock had screamed his name, the blood from John's heart seeping through his fingertips, the man's soft and gentle hands contorted into a claw as he grasped to Sherlock's similarly blood-stained jacket.
His lover had whispered his name one final time before his chest had taken one rattled breath and John had ceased to live, his eyes going dark and lifeless. Sherlock had clung to his body, soaking his still warm blood into his clothes and smearing it across his cheek where he held the body to his face, burying himself in John's smell beneath all that tinged metallic blood. It was the last time he'd seen John, before Lestrade had run in dragging the howling, detective from his flatmates body. John had been sent to his family, Sherlock hadn't attended the funeral not bearing to see the coffin with John's picture on moving slower and slower into the crematorium.
Sherlock smoothed the cool metal barrel of John's gun, the gun that had been misplaced in the murder inquiry, the gun that John's killer had turned on the two of them as they'd chased up the stairs into John's bedroom. The gun that fired the bullet that John had taken for Sherlock, his chest bucking as the bullet struck him in the heart.
Sherlock noted the cool sweep of metal before moving the gun to his the side of his head. A single tear splashed onto his cheek and he pulled the trigger.
