A/N: This is an un-beta'd version. My faithful Beta will beta it for me soon enough, I am sure. This was written with ehlp of Coldplay's Fix You and Imogen Heaps Speeding Cars.
Disclaimer: I own none of this except the storyline.
Here's the day you hoped would never come
Don't feed me violins, just run with me
Through rows of speeding cars...
Imogen heap -Speeding cars.
It is cold at night in the winter. A thin layer of snow covers the ground, holding faintly the foot-prints that uncaring feet in uncaring shoes leave behind them. Clouds cover the moon. The footprints lead from a strong black doors, marked in rusted gold with "221b", down a path, left, straight on for a while. Right, right again. They stop outside a park – gloved hands rest on a black gate. Pale blue eyes scan the dull grey night, alighting on everything for a moment, and behind them the sharpest of minds whirs, thinking and seeing and remembering and knowing. Somewhere in the night, a clock chimes 1 am, and the tall, pale man at the gate tenses, expectant. His fingers tighten on the gate, and then, one by one, relax. The shifting of his shoulders causes his long dark coat to rustle, the sound like the whimsical whispering of the wind. Behind him, footsteps can be heard, soft, seductive. He turns, and two pairs of eyes meet. Piercing icy blue meet a dark muddy brown. The blue eyes drop first, showing a flicker of – shame? He opens his mouth, then chooses not to speak.
"Sherlock Holmes" the other man says, his voice harsh, guttural. He extends a gloved hand, grimy, and offers Sherlock a package. "How the mighty have fallen, 'eh?"
"Hmm" Sherlock offers, his voice comparatively smooth. "Not now, George."
"Suit yourself" he mutters. Sherlock removes the small package from the hand before him, yet the hand remains. Unconcerned, he opens the package and eyes it's contents apprehensively. After a moment, he drops a crisp, unused note into Georges hand. The grimy man's face lights up with a perverse joy, and he steps backwards, melting into the night. Sherlock Holmes looks into the dark, cold park, lets out a barely perceivable sigh, and ventures deeper in.
I hear you leave, at 10 to 1 in the morning. I wonder, as the door slams, where you are going. I wonder, as I hear your footsteps on the path outside, why you don't tell me. I wonder, as I hear the clock ticking, if you are safe. I wonder, as I hear the birds begin to sing and night slowly turns to morning, when you will come home. If you will come home. I wonder, and I hope. The next morning, when I rise, you are sitting at the table. A mug of coffee is squeezed between your hands. You are tremblingly slightly. I know you wont respond to any obvious caring from me, but I make a point of brushing my hand along your arm as I pass. Freezing. I put the heating on, and wait for you to speak. As I make myself tea, watching you from the corner of my eye, I begin to form suspicions. Immediately, I am angry at myself. You are a grown man and I hold no ties over you, and I certainly have no right to accuse, or to judge. And yet, I continue to wonder. I hope I am wrong, Sherlock.
Days pass. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson continue life as always. John works, when he can, and Sherlock moans and sulks and shoots things and waits for a case. When one arrives, ordinary life is dropped. The two men run across London, fighting crime and saving lives, and as they do it, they feel they could sing for the pure joy of freedom. This is exhilarating, wild, and free. Suddenly, with no warning, the case is solved. The fast paced exciting drama is gone. Life is dull. John goes back to his work. Sherlock sits, and stares at the walls. At his phone. At the ceiling. At John Watson's empty chair. Evenings are spent indoors- peaceful, dull, relaxing, boring silence.
"Sherlock?" John asks, one particularly cold evening. He is sitting in his chair, watching the fractal-like patterns of frost splinter across the window. He begins to know how they feel. The atmosphere in the room is brittle, just like the frost. Sherlock has not snuck out again, but John has lost sleep waiting for it. He still hopes he is wrong.
"Yes, John?"
"I'm bored."
"Yes, I know the feeling. Quite well, in fact. This is mind-numbingly dull."
"Lets go out" Normally, Sherlock would scoff, but tonight he seems restless. After a moment, he nods his head, just once. Relief acts as a sponge, soaking up the tension. The two men stand as one, and head for the door.
This time, the snow is thick, and heavy. It whirls through the air, laying stark and shocking against the dark hair and dark coat. It has been 2 weeks. He takes the same directions, and meets the same man. This time, he is a little less hesitant. This time, he pays a little faster. As George yet again leaves, Sherlock ventures to the same dark corner as last time, and leans against the wall.
It shouldn't be bothering him. It never used to. A useless feeling, guilt. Completely useless. One he had never bothered with – until now, it seems. As he prepares himself, he pictures Johns face. Thinks of the quiet yet unfailing trust the man has in him. Stop that he tells himself, firmly. What he does in his own free time is entirely his own choice. John has nothing to do with it. This he tells himself, and this is the last thing he thinks before he gives in to the only bliss he has ever been able to find.
I hear you leave again, and I immediately begin to worry. A part of me wants to go after you, but the thought of your cold rage if I interfere with your life quells me. I stay in bed, and I think of you, and I think of myself, and I think of all the things in between. Most of all, I think of how there used to be so little of those things. Yet now, there are countless. I cannot pinpoint the moment it began to change, but it has changed. And I fear it will never change back.
The next time, there is no snow. The air is bitterly cold, and there is a strong wind, but no snow. This time, he leaves no evidence behind him as he walks. He sees this as a relief, though he cannot say why. He is not doing anything wrong, he truly believes that now. This time, there is no hesitance, no reluctance. This time, he goes straight there, and only for a second does he think of John at all. John could never understand this.
When you leaves for the third time, I wonder why you must keep secrets. I am almost certain – if not of the where, then of the why- about these night-trips. I would confront you, but I still fear you will be angered. And there is still the chance I am wrong. Yet would it not be better to speak of it and be wrong than to stay silent and be right? I wish only to help. To heal. This old wound that has opened up, is the same as any wound I have dressed with stitches and bandages. This one I will dress with support and concern. Yes, I will speak to you. I will not see you self destruct.
"Sherlock, we have to talk" Sherlock Holmes is sitting in his seat, the window behind him and the violin hanging limp from his fingers. He does not play. He has not played in weeks, now. John never thought he would miss it.
"What?" Sherlock snaps, angered at the interruption to whatever daydream he was previously in. He wont meet Johns eyes, instead glaring at his shoulder.
"You're different. And I think I know why, Sherlock."
"Different? I'm not different. I'm just bored, John" the two men stand in silence for a while, each wanting to impose his view on the other. One must concede, and one does. But as he nods his head, just once, he keeps his sad eyes trained upon Sherlock Holmes, and his face shows a quiet despair.
"It's Mycroft! I have a case!" The silhouette of Sherlock Holmes fills the door to Johns room. The older man opens a tired eye, and tries to focus.
"What time is it, Sherlock?"
"4. That's not the point. Get dressed." With this he turns on his heel, and flounces from the room. The dark sky, the silence of the air, leaves no doubt that this is 4 am, not pm. And yet, John dresses with a smile. There's hope yet.
The fourth time, it is raining. Hair plastered to his face, the once elegant man now looks forlorn and lost. He reaches the park early. Standing by the gate, he shifts his weight impatiently, his eyes fluttering unfocused around. No longer are they taking in everything. Now, they simply seek one thing – and when he arrives, with his precious load, Sherlock Holmes practically runs to him.
"You sure 'bout this un, mate? It's stronger, like you said, but you look like you could maybe use a break..."
"I'm fine, George" He does not wait, snatching the package from Georges fingers. Once, he would have noticed how much cleaner George was. Once, he would have noticed the faint scent of soap. Now, he notices a fine white powder, and nothing else. Dropping notes into the homeless man's hand, he spins on his heel and lopes into the night. George stares after him, frowning, sad. After a few moments, he shrugs, pockets his money, and turns.
I cannot simply lay in bed and wonder, this time. This time, it is only three days since the last time. This time, you cannot blame boredom. The case was solved this very evening. You have had no time to get bored. No. Sherlock, you have run out of excuses, and I have run out of options. A confrontation is needed. This time, I get up. I go to the kitchen and there I sit, staring at the rain. I feel a pang of misery when I think of you, out there in this, filling yourself with god knows what. I leave the kitchen again, and enter your room. Trying to shove down my guilt, I reach with weary hands and I begin the search. Mattress. Floorboards. Wardrobes. Where would you hide something, Sherlock? I don't think you would, actually. I'm beginning to wonder what I'm doing here, when my eyes fall upon a pile of papers. I lift them, carefully. They are scrawled, illegible notes, coffee stained photographs. I finally recognise the notes from the last case. Shock ripples through me. Sherlock – messy, disorganised Sherlock – you kept your case notes in impeccable order. They were the record of your achievements, the only thing Id ever imagined you truly loving. Note now that I speak in past tense. This mess- this untidy pile of junk – this is not from the man I know. As I sit there, holding in my hands the irrefutable evidence that I am losing you, I begin to fall apart. My life began again when I met you – this insane, incorrigible, wonderful man. And now, Sherlock, you are gone and suddenly I am who I used to be – an ex-army doctor, alone and out of place. Wounded. Damaged. You, I realise, kept me whole. I sit on the floor and I tremble, and I do not realise I am crying until I see tears on the case notes. I drop them, disgusted. Who am disgusted with, I do not know, but in my anger, I rise to my feet, head to the stairs, open the door, and-
"John?" across the threshold, two men stand, staring at each other. The rain seems to grow louder, until it thunders through the air. After an endless moment, John steps aside, and Sherlock slumps through the door. He stumbles into the kitchen, eyes wild and movements uncoordinated. John closes the door, looks at Sherlock, and returns to his bed.
John empties his wallet on the table, sighing in frustration. First Sherlock, now this. He was sure he had been more careful – hating his dependency upon Sherlock, he tries to manage his own money. He keeps £50 for emergencies- yet now, there is no sight of it. Ever trusting, he does not think of Sherlock Instead, he sighs, takes a pencil, and begins to do the calculations yet again.
It is summer. He has lost count. Its more than the 12th time, he knows, because 12 was when he stopped counting. 12 was so long ago, now. There is nothing there now that resembles the dignified, self-possessed man of the first trip. The man who stands in the park now, ignorant of the noises, sights, smells, and life all around him, is a husk of who he was. The man who comes to meet him, however, is well built, clean shaven, and well dressed. He peers with muddy eyes at Sherlock, and guilt flashes across his face.
"Sherlock, mate" he says, starting forward. He hesitates. Sherlock looks at him, and his eyes seem empty. "Sherlock, I got a job. A real one. I'm getting out of dealing – you're my last job. I think you need to get clean again, mate" Even his voice seems smoother than before. Sherlock simply shrugs, and holds out his hands. He has no money left of his own to offer. He offers John's money instead. Sherlock does not stay to chat – he takes what is his, and he retreats.
It is much later than usual, and with no sign of you yet. I get up, worry fluttering in my throat and chest. I head down the stairs, and see the post. Top of the pile, is a large red envelope, with Red writing stamped across it. My heart skips a beat. It can't be what it looks like – we are up to date with all our payments. You take care of all that. Sherlock. I remember, now, my initial worry. A quick scan shows me the flat is empty, and I know, with the quiet cold certainty of intuition, that something is wrong. I call Lestrade, explain to him what has happened. He is hesitant, but agrees to help. I call Mycroft. He seems shocked to hear form me, after so long excluding him from our lives, yet he agrees to help. I head to the door. My heart is racing. I am sure now something is wrong. I begin to run, and fear and dread fill me with each beat of my heart, with the pounding of my heart. I take turns, not thinking, not caring. A smart looking, well dressed man stops me in the street.
"John!" he says, his face pale. I do not recognise him. "John, it's about Sherlock!" I stop dead in my tracks, spin to face him. "I... well... I've been...erm... selling him some stuff. And he.. looked pretty beat up last night. I'm guessing from your face he didn't come home. I can show you where he goes." I follow him, without a word. Faces and colours and sounds blur around me, my head is swimming. The man soon slows, and points into a copse of trees and thick bushes. "in there," he whispers, trembling. I step forward.
He can feel that something is wrong. The drugs, they aren't going through him like they normally do. Everything is faster, sped up. He wonders how long he has been sitting here. It feels like years. Centuries. Around him, lights and noises dim to a muffled darkness. Everything is fuzzy. He does not know what time it is. How can darkness be so bright? So bright...so blinding... in a moment of clarity, he sees a face, A face he knows better than any other. A face he could recall every detail of – John's face. Johns face is there, so close to him, and he can smell him. Why is he crying? John is crying, that is all wrong; something bad must be happening. He begins to panic, tries to sit up. Why cant he feel his legs? Where are his arms? He can feel arms, strong around his chest. They feel strong, and warm. They are not his arms. They are John's arms. John is here, and he cant feel anything else, cant think anything else. He cant see. This does not scare him, because John is here. He smiles.
No. Nonononononono. I see you, sprawled across the floor. I do not need to wonder what has happened, I can see it in your face. I run to you, drop to my knees.
"Sherlock!" I yell. I can tell you cant hear me. Your eyes are unfocused, limbs twitching slightly. My mind runs through the symptoms you are displaying, shouting medical advice, but I cannot listen. I cannot accept it is too late. The man who lies before me, eyes rolling back into his head, is not the man I once knew. He is not a man I can save. "Sherlock, Sherlock It's OK, I'm here" I whisper. You are making whimpering noises, the twitching is getting worse. You have so little time left. Suddenly, Sherlock, you seem to come back to me. You look up at me, and I wrap my arms around your chest, holdoing you close, holding you together. I am crying now, sobbing like a baby. "Sherlock, Sherlock, you can't leave me. I love you, Sherlock, you're best friend, you're my Sherlock, I love you. You're not meant to leave me, I need you, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.."
"John..." You whisper. I gasp, feeling it like a knife through my chest. Your eyelids flutter, close. Your body goes limp in my arms. You smile, so faintly. I try to breathe in, but I can't. My heart has stopped, failed alongside yours. What right does mine have to beat, when I let yours stop? Something begins inside me, in my stomach. A tightening sensation, racing through me, until it spills out of my mouth in a roar. I cannot see. I cannot feel. My head is light, empty, spinning. Everything is spinning. I clutch him, tighter and tighter. Tighter. Everything is black.
When he arrives at the scene, Lestrade knows already he is too late. John lies on the floor, clutching a body, and falling to pieces around it. It shocks lestrade to the core to see the state of the man who was once Sherlock. He feels sadness, like an abyss, waiting for him, but he is a professional, and he must continue. Taking a deep breath, he steps forward.
Mycroft gets there moments after John, but moments is all it took. For a long time, he simply stares. He was too late – he had always been that bit too late to save Sherlock It is not until he feels a reassuring pressure on his hand he realises he is trembling. He gasps, softly, and a few of the policemen look at him. He does not care. This is his baby brother, and Mycroft let him slip away.
Not many are at the funeral. Perhaps 15 people, sitting around in black and looking sombre. John feels a sudden sense of irrational humour. Sherlock would have been disgusted – this was, after all, completely pointless. Sherlock wasn't here, so why should any of them be? Standing up, he ignored the scandalized mumblings of the small crowd, and turned away. Out into the dull light of the day, surrounded by the roar of traffic and light. He stood, by a road, and watched the speeding, racing traffic. He began to walk, following the flow of the traffic. His mind did not wander, he did not think. He picked up his pace, began to jog. He did not think, but he remembered. The stab of piercing eyes. The screech of the violin. The condescending sneer. The exhilaration of the chase. The sound of gun shots. Laughter. The colour purple. Icy blue. The smell of coffee, the feeling of being insulted. The wonder. The marvel. The pure, unadultered, life. John closed his eyes, and with reckless abandon, he began to run.