Okay so I don't know what it is recently but I'm really into angsty fics so I thought I'd write another one. If you haven't already, I recommend you listen to 'Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree' by James Vincent McMorrow. It's a beautiful song and was my inspiration for this!
Anyway I hope you guys enjoy this, as much as you can anyway - it's pretty depressing.
Your feedback would be highly appreciated, I love hearing what people think!
- beacons
The room swims, and the colours are hard to make out. He can see abstract hues of black and white but they fuse together. The floor boards are hard underneath his head and the pounding in the back of his skull is relentless but he supposes that it doesn't matter anymore.
The fingers are rough and calloused, but uniquely soft in a way that is so entirely John it makes his eyes well at the familiar touch. The sun is setting behind the skyline of London and the city is bathed in a glow that for now will lull the quiet hum of unsolved crimes that would usually beckon Sherlock forth. Now, however, he could not succumb to the ceaseless call of work even if he wanted to.
He lay helpless, limbs sprawled out and kind, gentle eyes burning into his own, but still full of that unconditional concern a doctor feels for his patient in the desperate obligation to see them through. He could feel something cool at his forehead, numbing the ache in his skull, fighting the heat that travelled north through his limp body, nimble, skilful hands at his shirt. One by one John undid the buttons, moved to open the window, before Sherlock could feel the familiar sting of a needle penetrating the patch of skin at the bend of his arm.
"Just listen to my voice, Sherlock." John soothed, his tone almost a whisper, soft but firm and melodic to Sherlock, "listen to me, and everything will be fine. I'm just putting you to sleep for a little while, you'll wake up as good as new."
Fingers enclosed around Sherlock's as the doctor watched over him, being the last thing the detective saw before the shadows closed in around his peripheral vision and he was washed away onto the shore of blissful, peaceful unconsciousness.
Sherlock could feel a weary smile stretch across his lips as the memory temporarily quieted the pain of the poison coursing through his veins, was aware of the ache becoming numb and his body becoming slower in reacting to the chemical instructions sent from his brain. John was there the last time he'd fucked up.
It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.
"Beyond the horizon, far away
Across the galaxy, past the bay
You'll hear my voice, I'll sing to you
The stars will echo my words too
And you'll remember there is no love
Greater than the love we share
For darling, I belong to you
Hear my voice, hear my prayer."
Sherlock glanced over the sheet of paper in front of him and his heart swelled at the sight of his doctor so nervous, rubbing the back of his neck and casting his watchful gaze to the floor.
"You wrote this?" asked Sherlock, rising from his chair and brushing his thumb against the doctor's chin, the simple touch electric. John nodded.
"Read it out to me."
It was after only a flash of reluctance that John began to recite the words, sounding so much better in his voice, and Sherlock could read every sparkle in his eyes, like cosmos dancing in a burning flame, as captivating as the flickering lights of the city integrating into one techni-coloured blur like fire flies amongst the forest.
John would never sing those words to him again.
These past couple of months alone in the flat had been sickening. He could no longer hear John pottering about in the kitchen, the shuffle of his footsteps across the floor, the boiling of the kettle, the clinking of the cutlery, the rustle of a newspaper. No more lingering touches or heated kisses. The silence was deafening, and the loneliness was suffocating.
Bitterness is a paralytic; love is a much more vicious motivator. How right he had been. John was gone, and so it was fitting that he should leave too. Love was the strongest force on earth and it did not show mercy to whom it consumed, it was a game of heart, and now Sherlock was playing his final card.
As he took his last breaths and the pain began to ebb, he recalled John's final words before he'd died. The way he'd spoken them – strained with pain, laced with gratitude, heightened by truth and encompassed by love.
"We'll see each other again soon."
And Sherlock replied, "I promise it'll be sooner than you think. I promise I'll come home to you."
Soon couldn't have come quick enough.
Voices like a choir of angels were beginning to sing, and Sherlock welcomed death with open arms. It was beautiful, really. Not how he'd expected.
"Beyond the horizon, far away, across the galaxy, past the bay, you'll hear my voice, I'll sing to you, the stars will echo my words too, and you'll remember there is no love, greater than the love we share, for darling, I belong to you, hear my voice, hear my prayer."
He could see John standing at the top of the stairs now, wearing the same old knitted sweater, hand outstretched and smile wide. The light was almost blinding but it didn't matter because there he was, his own doctor, and as Sherlock descended the steps he could feel the crater in his chest fill up once more. The overwhelming happiness he felt was too much, but as he fell to his knees, strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him up.
"You've come home," John whispered, his eyes glassy.
"I promised I would."
Hand in hand, they went inside. 221B was the same as always, everything as it was.
They were home.