Title: Echoing Thoughts
Summary: He can't believe he lost her. / An AU on John, Mary, and the baby. / If you squint, there's one-sided Johnlock. / Possible triggers. Written in reverse chronological order.
AN: This is a less-than-1000 words drabble referring to events in reverse chronological order, if there is such a thing.
Warnings: Character death, gramatical errors, and of course, changing tenses. Also, as stated in the summary, possible triggers.
now
Nothing is the same.
today
It was supposed to be her first Christmas. Their first Christmas.
Sherlock makes it a point not to wake John too early, but it's a futile attempt- John Watson is awake and roaming and lost before the sun is up, and of course, his flatemate is still awake before he is.
John takes a sip of his beer which was handed to him. For a second, he closes his eyes and imagines what should have happened.
He should have woken up by a cry, a little hand prodding him -just by something- in his own little house, next to her. Then they'd bound to the kitchen, taking their time to make the best breakfast in the world. A plastic, stocky Christmas tree would sit in a corner, huddled with a circle of gifts.
When he opens his eyes, the world is still dark. Sherlock moved with his violin and his lanky arms draw back and forth, but the bow refrains itself from touching the strings.
Sherlock plays silently. John listens.
John's breakfast is a dry bowl of cereal. Sherlock has nothing.
An absent corner waits for nothing.
Today should be the end of the world, but for now it moves on, as always.
two days ago
"John!"
Perhaps he should get over them. He remembers their child; cold and small and perfect and stiff, never opening her eyes or her lungs, unable to catch a breath.
And Mary- who was she? They made it through this year together until the baby is dead and she leaves a note and a flash drive that will haunt him forever.
That woman who left him alone with a coffin too small and the scent of Clair-de-la-lune- she wasn't his. Mary Watson was. She was never real, but that didn't mean he didn't love her.
"John!"
His thoughts break their track, and John looks up at his eccentric friend.
Sherlock grins, already wrapped up in his signature scarf and billowing coat. He's jittering with excitement. "Molly's got two more with situs inversus and it's for a case, John! The case!"
If there were two things in the world that made Sherlock Holmes act like an excited child, it would be a locked-room murder and a visit to St. Bart's after being banned for a month. (John discovered this when he finally arrived to 221b from... that, and just decided not to question it.)
John pulls on a tight smile that somehow feels real. "Christmas must be almost here, then."
"Yes, John." A grin, which turns into a frown. "Oh. It really is coming, isn't it."
Sherlock tried to pull out him out of his self-pity, making them run across London. The air is sharp and biting and cold; just what he needs. They lose themselves in the alleys and back ways and major streets, weaving their very souls into the city.
John almost tricks himself into thinking he is free.
thirteen days ago
John cleared his throat, raising his eyes from his worn shoes and setting them in Sherlock's. The blue orbs are curious, but other than that, blank. "So."
Sherlock's expression softens the slightest bit, and only John had the talent for noticing it. "The room upstairs is still open. I mean," a hesitant thought crosses Sherlock's features. "If you still want it."
The offer doesn't have a moment to hang in the air. "I'll take it, but I still have to-"
Sherlock doesn't pay attention to the rest of John's words and beams like the London sun on a rare clear day.
fourteen days ago
The baby was supposed to come today.
John wakes early, but not for the reason of defeating a nightmare with another. No; stupidly, sentimentally, his phone blares out an alarm, reminding him of Mary's due date.
(Who was she, really? He married a stranger.)
The baby was supposed to come today.
There is a photo that sits on his bedside stand, one he hasn't managed to get rid off. It's one of Mary, wearing one of her old, red sweaters, and him matching her with his maroon jumper. His hand was on her stomach, the pregnancy becoming more prominent.
That day he decides he can't live here anymore. The walls are to white and blinding, the table is still set for three (he hasn't managed to put away the dishes and take down the high chair,) and the nursery-
That's it. He can't live here anymore.
someday
He wakes up on Lestrade's couch a week later due to a cat pawing his face.
Lestrade stands above him, picking up the cat with an apologetic look. "Sorry."
"What-" His head is pounding and he raises a hand to his eyes to shield them from the light.
"You don't remember?" Lestrade questions, unsurprised. His voice seems magnified and John flinches at the sound.
"Remember what?"
"Yesterday. Pub. Fight." At Lestrade's words, John rubs his eyes. His right one feels tender and raw.
"Ah."
Lestrade hesitates, tossing a thought around in his head, rocking back and forth on his heels. "There's Advil on the kitchen table."
"You go to work, I'll be fine." John states, waving a hand. Worry and relief pass across Greg's face paradoxically at the same time.
"Are you-"
"I owe you." The nights he spent here during Sherlock's... hiatus, at Greg's flat, are left unspoken about. "I'll watch the cat. Don't worry- she won't get the vase this time."
Gratitude flutters across the other's face. "Thanks, John."
"I owe you," he states plainly.
At this, Lestrade shakes his head. "No. You don't."
twenty-seven days ago
It's a Monday. The windows let in harsh light that cause him to close the curtains.
Mary is gone.
Honestly, John saw it coming.
They haven't talked for days. The matters of what to do with the baby -that baby girl, his beautiful, premature, baby girl, cold and stiff and unmoving- are still left open.
Later in the week he will decide to donate the body to science. Sherlock doesn't show any delight.
But, that will be Friday. Now, it's the beginning of the week, an end of a life, and an end of a marriage.
She didn't take a single trace of them with her and the only thing she leaves behind is an envelope containing a note and a flash drive.
I should have been more thorough. Love, Mary
He looks at that flash drive that night, and honestly, he wishes that he hadn't.
Afterwards, he snaps it in half and flushes it down the toilet.
a month ago
Mary is still here.
They are both anticipating, waiting, and nervous. It's too early, yet-
The baby is rushed to intensive care before he could even hold her.
Her. A beautiful baby girl with hair as soft and as colorless as white silk and skin that's as smooth as a refined seashell.
She was an angel.
.
But now she's gone back up.
.
She died the same day she was born.
He was a father for less than 24 hours.
seven months ago
"I do."
.
They were so happy.
.
The solo speaks to him. Sherlock guides the bow rhythmically, sorrowfully, pulling the strings at his will.
.
"Mary, you're pregnant."
.
John doesn't notice, but Mycroft does. The latter calls his younger brother immediately after he steps outside the building. Sherlock swings his arms into his coat just as his phone rings.
Sherlock answers. "What do you want, Mycroft?"
"No kind hello, brother?"
"Just get to the point."
A pause. Sherlock huffs an impatient breath. "Well?"
"Everything's going to change, Sherlock."
"Are you quoting those weight commercials again? You should know they're lying about that, those plans never work-"
"Sherlock."
An inturruption. Sherlock listens and awaits quietly for the other side, for once.
"I am sorry-"
Another sharp intake of breath follows. Sherlock stiffens. "What for?"
"-though caring is not the advantage." And of course he says that.
"I never cared." Sherlock quickly defends a bit too vehemently.
.
John still doesn't notice.
eleven months ago
Sherlock actually has the nerve to come back. That git.
eighteen months ago
"Oh, sorry."
"No, no, it's fine, it was my fault, sorry. Can I help you with those?"
"Thank you so much. My friend wanted me to drop these all off around the neighborhood, though. If you don't mind, could you help me?"
"I've got nothing else to do, sure. I'm John."
"I'm Mary."
Hello.
fin.