Author's Note: Hi, everyone. This is my first fanfiction in a while, and it's my first Sherlock one, so I hope it doesn't disappoint. Any mistakes in this, whether grammatically or anything else, are my own.
Warnings: Angst. Seriously. So much angst. There's some swearing and mentions of suicide. Other than that, I can't really think of any.
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me. It belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Memories That Burn
Does life require living, or is it merely a concept – a subjective notion that depends entirely on the person? These are the thoughts that are buzzing through your mind, amongst the blood and sorrow of your memories. With a bitter laugh creeping up your throat, you think of what it would be like to be Him and be able to delete things. Maybe then it wouldn't hurt so fucking much to even breathe. But, then again, you realise, that would delete all the good memories – all the smiles and all the laughter that hurt your chest, because you both felt so alive. That isn't a feeling you'd felt for a long time, is it? Although you don't feel much of anything, anymore. Not really. Not truly. Anything you do feel is watered down. It's like you're experiencing someone else's feelings through some sort of link, but you're not able to feel all of it, or something like that. You're not really sure.
The days pass one minute at a time. The only thing that really breaks them up are Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and very occasionally Mycroft. You put on the best smile you can manage, so much that your cheeks ache, but they all see through your pitiful lies – you can see it in their sad, sympathetic expressions. Lestrade invites you to the pub, almost every week, like clockwork, and you always answer with "maybe next time." It's almost like routine now. Mrs Hudson often makes you tea and sometimes food, if she feels you're not eating enough, but it mostly goes uneaten. It wasn't only Him that died that day, it seems. Molly often keeps the tone light, mainly discussing the gossip and comings and goings of St Bart's. You usually try to join in, mainly to avoid seeing the sadness in her eyes. Her eyes always seem to bother you more than anyone else's, for some reason.
When Mycroft arrives, the conversation inevitably turns to things along the lines of "he wouldn't want to see you like this," or "do you require another therapist, Doctor Watson?" and no, you don't want another bloody therapist, thank you very much. The first time Mycroft mentioned that it wasn't what He would have wanted, you saw red, and you screamed that it didn't matter what Sherlock Bloody Holmes wanted, because he was dead. That had shut Mycroft up well and truly. It wasn't until two months after that, that you saw him again.
You had been angry at Mycroft, what felt like centuries ago. Furious even. After all, you believed it was his fault that Sherlock had taken his own life. But when your thoughts were more rational, or as rational as they manage to get nowadays, you realised that you couldn't continue to blame Mycroft anymore. It would not bring back the dead. That doesn't mean you liked the prick, though.
Sometime after watching your best friend hit the ground, you came a recluse. You cannot remember if it happened straightaway or gradually. All you know is that, at some point, the idea of going outside did not appeal anymore. And, ever since Mycroft made it his duty to deliver you the bare essentials, like milk and bread, and send money to your bank account, you've never needed to go outside. With every week spent in 221b Baker Street, the outside becomes distant and more daunting. So, instead of talking to people face to face, like an ordinary human being, you end up online. You avoid some websites, particularly ones with anything to do with Sherlock, and even your own blog, except to write one last message, and instead look for more general forums. You lurked more than anything, especially at first. They seemed full of people who knew each other like old friends; it felt too awkward to join in on their conversations. Eventually, though, you found one that you managed to pluck up the courage to post on. You didn't post much – more about general things, like films, than anything else – but it was start. You met some nice people there, including some that seemed as lost and alone as you felt.
It's what you're doing now: posting on the forum. It's what you're seemingly always doing, at least according to Mrs Hudson. It has become a coping mechanism of sorts, and it is a nice distraction. It gives you peace, at least for a little while. Once or twice, whilst reading through an argument that had erupted whilst you attempted to sleep, you called out to Him and asked for a cup of tea. It was only when there was no reply, and that you were met by complete silence, that you realised your mistake. You cried for a long time, after that – your mind filled with guilt that you had forgotten, even if it was only for a moment, that your best friend was buried six feet underground.
The painful memory makes you think back to the last time you've visited His grave. Too long. At least six months. Another wave of guilt throws through your entire body. It seems to be the only emotion you get to experience fully – even grief seems to have become more of a constant dull ache, than anything else. You make a vow to attempt to visit His grave, possibly bring flowers as well, all the while knowing it's nothing more than an empty promise, and carry on reading the rest of the argument. The rest of the day is unsurprisingly uneventful, and you head to bed, walking cane in hand, at just past 11pm, feeling too exhausted that it's a chore to even get to your bedroom.
You're dreaming. You're standing in a field that is so calm and serene, that you could honestly stay here forever, if you could. There is a distant sound of birds chirping and bees buzzing, and there is a slight wind in the air, making for a fine afternoon. You don't consider questioning why you're here – why you're suddenly outside. Very rarely do you realise you're dreaming, until it's too late.
There is a sound behind you: the gentle sound of someone stepping on grass. You spin around in slight surprise, and you're face to face with Him. With Sherlock Holmes. He is the same as you remember him, with his pale skin, too-blue eyes and that coat that always made him look even taller. There is a gentle smile on his face.
"John," he says. That familiar deep voice sends a spark of pure joy into your heart. It is all so wonderful and perfect. You could just stay in this field with Sherlock, where no Moriarty or Mycroft can reach you. It sounds wonderful.
"Sherlock," you force out, your voice oddly hoarse. "Why…why did you leave me?"
"What do you mean, John?" Sherlock questions, looking genuinely confused. "I've been here all along." As the words escape his lips, pieces of skin begin to crack and fall off of his face. John feels bile rise to his throat, and he pushes back a scream. This is not real, you try and tell yourself, Sherlock is real – it's a figment of your imagination.
"John, what's the matter?" Blood is pouring out of his ears and eyes now. There is so much blood. Just like there was, that day. It had practically flooded the pavement. Each droplet of the red liquid burns the grass below, like acid.
"John, talk to me!" Sherlock was yelling now. "Do you hate me now?"
"N-No, Sherlock, of course not!" you exclaim, watching in horror as those beautiful black locks on Sherlock's head begin to fall off in clumps. The blood is pouring out of Sherlock's mouth now as well, saturating his clothing and the grass below.
All of a sudden, Sherlock lunges forward, falling into your arms. You push him up, but there's nothing left of his face now – there is only a rotting corpse. Maggots are pushing their way through his nostrils, and his skin is hanging off.
With a scream, you awake to find yourself back in your room. There is no blood on the ground. There is no field. There is no Sherlock. Your stomach churns, as the images of the dream flow through your mind. It takes all of your willpower to not throw up the meagre contents of your stomach, and instead you force yourself to stand up and limp your way to the bathroom, to get a glass of water. As you fill up the glass you found in your room, you unwittingly stare into your own reflection. You hardly recognise yourself, and it really is no wonder that everyone is worried about you. Your skin is pale, but it is not the porcelain quality of Sherlock's, but rather an unhealthy pasty colour. The black smudges that have taken refuge under your eyes look almost tattooed on, and your pyjamas are hanging off you awkwardly because of the weight loss.
That small, horrible part of your mind whispers to you that, even if you had told Him the truth, he would never have felt the same – certainly not when you look like this. Because, yes, for some stupidly masochistic reason, you fell in love with the prat. The man whose closest relationship was 'The Work' and was most likely asexual. The saddest part of the tragic unrequited love story is that you never realised, or truly realised, your feelings until he was forcibly pulled from your life. It was during the dark nights alone that everything came together. When it was too late. Not that it would have mattered, your mind repeats to you, because he would have never loved you anyway.
Your push the tears back into your skull with sheer willpower alone, because of all the reasons to cry, you are not allowed to due to this. You really would blur the line between mourning and pathetic then, if you haven't done so already.
With the desire to sleep all but disappeared, you decided to go back downstairs to turn your laptop on. Whilst waiting for everything to load up, you go to make yourself a cup of tea, completely aware that it will be a long night. There is something oddly comforting about making tea, you think. You're not sure if it's because it's routine or for another reason. All you know is that it calms you somehow. With tea in hand, you head back to the living room and head over to your laptop. You look up to see the skull facing you, which brings back images of the dream, but you push the thoughts away and join in on a conversation about, oddly enough, taxi drivers. It brings back fond memories of you running around London with Sherlock whilst trying to find out who was forcing people to commit suicide. It had been the first time you hadn't needed to use your cane, and you had never had to use it again, right up until after he died. The limp had come back fairly quickly, much to your dismay, and it made you realise that the only thing truly propping you up was Sherlock, and now you were left to limp your way through a sad existence.
On the topic about taxi drivers, in which you make sure you avoid mentioning murdering ones, you start talking a little more with another user. The conversation turns to more general things, such as annoyances, with mainly you and the other user contributing. You decide to check his profile, but it gives very little information, other than the fact that they are male and joined at a similar time to you. As your eyes begin to ache more and more, you consider going to watch some mindless television until you end up passing out on the sofa, when you receive a private message. Feeling curious, you open it up; it's from the user you were discussing things with earlier.
'Hey. I hope I don't come across as forward or a little creepy, but you seemed like a cool guy, so I thought I'd send you a message. So, how are you doing?
The name's Ben btw.'
You smile at the slightly awkward message, and you immediately reply back.
'Hi. Don't worry about it, you seem like an alright bloke yourself. Pleased to meet you, Ben. I'm John. I'm reasonable just currently waiting until I'm tired enough to sleep. How about you?'
You end up talking to him for a while, chatting about various things. It is mainly small talk, but it rapidly becomes less awkward. It feels like talking to a mate or an acquaintance, really. You find out that he's in his 30's and lives just outside of London. You both share a love of crap reality TV programmes, it seems, due to his fascination with X-Factor.
When Ben says, just over two hours later, that he needs to head to bed, you feel a little disappointed, but you know that you need to at least manage some sleep as well. Grabbing the cane, you heave yourself from the chair and head back to bed. Rather surprisingly, you're asleep almost instantly, and you have no more dreams about a dead Sherlock.
Over the next few weeks, you continue to talk to Ben. You don't talk about anything personal, and you certainly don't mention Sherlock, but that doesn't seem to bother the other man. Ben is always pleasant to talk to, and he is often incredibly witty – he is the perfect distraction. You're not sure if it's his influence, or perhaps your own step forward, but you feel just a little bit more…happy isn't the word. Stable. Yes, stable seems a more appropriate word.
You even finally accept Lestrade's offer of going to the pub, which is where you're heading now. As you reach the front door, a momentary panic sets in. You're paralysed by the idea that going outside will cause someone else to die – just like he did. There is a temptation there to call Greg and cancel, and you will never lie and say that the urge wasn't there, but you push it aside, as rationality finally regains control. Gritting your teeth in determination, you head out into the outside world. Even just outside feels miles away from your sanctuary. You push on regardless.
Greg spots you, as you enter the busy pub, and the smile on his face says it all; he didn't expect you to show. You feel oddly proud of yourself for managing to get yourself here, despite the fact it's something normal people manage all the time. You vaguely remember when you were normal – average – and all the times Sherlock stated that that's exactly what you were.
"John, I'm glad you made it – here, have a pint," Greg says, still smiling and with two pints in his hands.
"It's good to get out of the house," you find yourself saying. As you grab the pint, you hear Greg mention finding some seats, and you follow him down the rows of seats and tables that are filled with a whole array of people. It's like any other pub in existence, including the slightly sticky carpets and the smell of stale beer. As you walk past a couple, you hear what sounds suspiciously like "does it count as cheating if you only kiss them?" You chuckle a little to yourself and continue on your way. Finally, you find some seats towards the back. Like the carpet, there is a stickiness to the wobbly wooden table, but you don't mind. Not really. There are worse things in life than an unclean table.
The conversation is light and flows easily. It's nice to have a proper catch up with Greg, who took a major knockback in both his own confidence and his career, after the whole mess with his superiors finding out about Sherlock. All the cases he helped on were looked through in detail and, although they were found to be accurate, Chief Constable was not happy. Greg was lucky to keep his job, and everyone knows it.
"I've left my wife, you know," he says, out of seemingly nowhere.
You're taken aback, but you're not completely surprised. After all, despite what Sherlock said that day, you still believe in every one of his deductions, and his deduction about Greg's wife is no different.
"I'm sorry to hear that, mate," you answer with, unsure of what else to say.
"I'm not, if I'm honest. She really was shagging the PE teacher, and I deserve better than that, you know?"
"Damn right you do, and when she realises her mistake, then make sure you kindly tell her to bugger off."
"Oh, I will. Although I never really…you know…thought he was a fake, finding out that he was right about her just made me realise just how brilliant he really was," Greg mutters, sounding forlorn. "Sorry, I'm going to shut up about him now."
"No, it's good to talk about him, and yeah, he was pretty brilliant," you say, feeling that familiar rush of both affection and sadness, but the sadness isn't quite as choking as it usually is, and you count that as a victory.
"He was so clever, but of course still a complete prick," you continue with, laughing despite everything.
"Oh, most certainly – I should be given a medal for stopping myself from punching him," Greg joins in, laughing as well. "You changed him, though – you made him more human."
It's hard to tell if he's joking and, although a part of you considers the idea that he's being serious, it doesn't make much sense. You got him to eat and sleep a little more, but that pales in comparison to what Sherlock did for you. He saved you, in every way, particularly from yourself.
"Not really, mate – I was just his assistant."
"That's bollocks, and we both know it," Greg argues, before taking a sip of his lager. "I barely saw the bloke even crack a smile, except for an interesting case, and yet he outright laughed with you. I never managed that, and I've known him years."
"I suppose, but…"
"No, no buts. Right up until the end, he cared about you more than any other human being. If that isn't something to feel happy about, I don't know what is."
The topic changes after that, but the conversation continues to buzz in your mind, long after you finally part ways. You're not sure if it's the idea of Sherlock caring for you more than anyone else, or it's simply the alcohol, but you feel oddly light. Kind of like some sort of weight has been lifted, but you can't even begin to understand why. Maybe, just maybe, you begin to accept that not everyone saw you as nothing more than Sherlock's 'pet', and that you really can move on from this, and these are the thoughts that comfort you, as you drift off to sleep.
It is the 2nd anniversary of His death. It takes that one thought – that one realisation – for you to be completely undone. All of the hopes that you could move past this, perhaps even consider getting a job again, seem like nothing more than fairytales. Your life began and ended with Him, and now you are nothing. You have spent most of the day in bed. Everything is hurting, especially your chest. As a doctor, you know that the pain is purely mental, but that provides no comfort, and all it does is make you feel more pathetic and alone than ever.
All your thoughts are of Him, for the first time in a while, and there is some much hurt and guilt there, that you're not sure if you can take it anymore. You watch over and over again as He falls and hits the ground. There is so much blood. Possibly more blood in your imagination than there ever really was. All you can think about is, "if I had gotten there sooner, would he still be alive?" You sink into your own thoughts and sadness. Nothing else matters anymore.
You get out of bed and actually eat something, just over a day later. The toast feels like dust, in your throat, but you choke it down anyway. You haven't spoken to Ben for two days now, and nor do you have the motivation to do so. Ben causes you to distract from thoughts of Him, and you can't have that. Not now.
Not for the first time, you wonder if you'll ever be back to being just average. You wonder if you can go everyday doing all the things that normal people do. Go back to eating three meals a day and paying bills and working nine 'til five. It seems so…so boring. You're not sure if you want that, or if you ever wanted it, really. But then, what do you want? What do you want out of life? You're not sure. The military and Him were all you've ever wanted, and now both are nothing more than distant memories – just a file in a mental cabinet full of cobwebs and dust. Your thoughts stray to your gun, which is sitting, fully loaded, in a drawer, in your bedroom. A part of you is tempted. It wouldn't take long to do, really. You would just need to place it to your head, or possibly your mouth. Then all you'd have to do is pull the trigger, just like you've done countless times before. It would take only a few seconds – as long as it would take to jump off a building. Then maybe, just maybe, you'd see Him again, even if for just a little while, and then everything would be okay.
You feel the gun in your hand. It's heavy, but it's familiar. It is the gun that saved His life, right back at the start of your friendship. You clean it and check the bullets, taking pride in it, like any decent military man should. It's heaviness seems to increase, as you lift it upwards. Like it's carrying all your sadness and your pain, and the cure for all of it. Your finger is on the trigger now. In only a few seconds, it will be over.
Mrs Hudson flashes into your head. Then Molly and Lestrade. Even Mycroft appears. Finally, He is there. His eyes are filled with disappointment, and you know this isn't what he would want, but what should it matter? He's dead. That's the problem.
But you can't do it. The guilt gnaws away at your chest, and you just can't do it. You throw the gun at the wall in frustration, as angry tears make their way down your cheeks. To avoid the guilt, you pray that someone comes and takes what's left of your life from you. You have enough blood on your hands.
You're standing at His grave. It's so generic and simple, and it shows nothing of the man underneath the dirt. You wonder if that was Mycroft's intention – for it to be unassuming. In your shaking hands is a bouquet of flowers. It's nothing special, really; it's just some flowers that you randomly picked out, because the florist wanted your input. Feeling more than a little bit awkward, you place them down as carefully as possible, making sure you avoid squashing any of the flowers. It is the only bouquet there and, for some reason, that pisses you off. It's not like you expect there to be hundreds there or anything, seeing as He died two years ago, and He made a lot of enemies, but recognition that the anniversary had passed would have been appreciated.
"Hey, Sherlock," you whisper, stroking the gravestone gently. The stone feels cool against your skin, and it's oddly comforting. "I'm sorry I haven't been here, for…well, a long time, really. I've wanted to come, but I just couldn't face it, you know?"
Of course, there is silence. The only sound is the distant sound of traffic, somewhere in the distance.
"Listen, I'm sorry that I won't be with you for a while, and I'm sorry that you're probably bored, wherever you are, but I just couldn't do it. I'm too much of a coward, I guess. I promise I'll be with you soon. Just…just hold on until I get there, okay?"
You bring your hand to your lips and press a kiss to it, before placing it on the gravestone one last time. With that, you turn away, and you push back the tears, for when you get home. You're not going to cry in public. No matter what, you will have some dignity.
Despite the urges still being settled firmly in your brain, three days later, you carry on as normal. Normal for you, anyway. You haven't touched your laptop yet, and you can't even remember the reason why anymore. There are footsteps coming up the stairs to your flat, and you can only assume it's Greg or Molly. It is, in fact, Mycroft, much to your surprise. You're not sure when you saw him last, but it must have been awhile ago.
"Mycroft," you greet him with curtly.
"Ah, John, a pleasure to see you, as always." Mycroft was always polite with you, no matter how you treated him. It's one of the things you grudgingly respect him for.
"Have a seat," you mumble, feeling uncomfortable at his intense gaze.
Umbrella in hand, he strides over to the sofa and takes a seat, before going back to staring at you with the same calculated stare that He had.
"How've you been, John?"
"I've been all right, yourself?"
"The usual stresses, but one can't complain, I suppose."
There are a few moments of awkward silence. Despite knowing him for over three years now, conversations with Mycroft never feel any less awkward. You're not entirely sure whose fault it is, whether it's down to your own biases or that he has a stick up his arse.
"John, I'm not going to beat around the bush, as it were." Mycroft's tone was oddly more serious than usual, and there was something in his eyes that you rarely saw: worry.
"I know that you miss him, but there are people here, including myself, who would be most…distressed, if anything were to happen to you also."
It doesn't take long for you to understand what he's getting at. Somehow, and you'd rather not know how, he knows that you considered taking your own life. You're not sure how you feel about the whole thing, but you feel almost flattered that Mycroft cares enough about you to voice his concern, even if it's probably more for His sake.
"I know, Mycroft. Thanks." And you mean it – you mean it more than your awkward British mentality can allow you to say.
"Anytime. I know you and I have not always seen eye to eye, but I have always had your best interests at heart." And with that, Mycroft is gone, and you are left reeling.
When you're final able to centre yourself, and able to truly appreciate Mycroft's words, you're left feeling determined to not let the grief consume your life again. For the first time in days, you set up your laptop and go onto the messenger that you've been using to communicate with Ben, over the past few weeks; you had both decided it was easier than private messaging each other. Rather surprisingly, Ben is online. You find it a little odd, seeing as he's usually online late at night, but you're certainly not going to complain.
John: Hey.
His reply back is almost instantaneous.
Ben: Wow John, it's been awhile. How've you been?
John: Yeah, sorry about that. I've been better, but its okay. You?
Ben: I've been good. Do you want to talk about it?
You're not entirely sure if you should be honest or not. You don't want him to pity you or walk on eggshells around you, but you feel as though you should be honest with him, particularly seeing as he's been nothing but a good friend to you. After a moment's contemplation, you decide that you will be at least a little honest with him but will make sure you don't name any names. Feeling rather nervous, you begin to type your reply.
John: It was the anniversary of a close friend's death, last week.
Ben: I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask how they died?
John: Oh. Yeah sure. It was suicide.
It still hurt for you to think of it as a suicide, but that's what it was, really. You saw no one there to push him off, after all, and you can't imagine someone making him do something that he didn't want to do.
Ben: I'm really sorry for your loss. I might be interpreting wrong, but I feel as though you need to open up about this. If not to me then someone else?
John: I don't know what to say really. He was my best friend, and we met just when I'd been discharged from the army when I had nothing left.
John: Sorry I'll be quiet now.
Ben: No, don't be silly. Carry on. It definitely sounds like you two had a close relationship. Tell me more. I'm curious. I can imagine leaving the army was difficult?
John: It was 'cause it had been my life for so long you know? Then I came back and had nothing, but then he came into my life and helped me find myself again. That sounds really pathetic.
Ben: No it doesn't. How did you guys meet?
John: We both needed a new place, and we had a mutual friend that introduced that. We moved in together shortly after.
Ben: Sounds like you guys clicked really quickly.
John: We did. We both needed each other I guess. In a way that no one else seems to understand. Everyone thought we were a couple.
Ben: I'm guessing you weren't a couple then?
John: No we weren't.
John: But I did love him.
It was only when you press enter, that you realise the extent of your words. You'd never admitted it to anyone – not Molly or Lestrade and especially not Mycroft – and now you have admitted it to someone you haven't even met, without even really thinking about it. But Ben hasn't replied yet, and now you're starting to panic. You know nothing of his views on homosexuality, even though you would never count yourself as gay yourself, or anything of that nature. Genuine fear that he now hates you grips onto your chest. It feels like hours that you're sitting there and waiting for a reply, but it's actually only a few minutes.
Ben: Did you ever tell him?
Ben: Sorry for the late reply. It hasn't bothered me – I just didn't know what to say. Wish I knew what to say to help you, mate.
You feel relief wash over you. It's all okay, and you were just jumping to conclusions earlier. Of course Ben doesn't mind – he never seems bothered by anything. You appreciate that he wants to help you, as well.
John: No I never told him. I don't know if he ever felt the same.
Ben: He did.
You look at his reply in confusion, and you feel your heart beat abnormally fast.
Ben: I'm sure he did*
Ben: Sorry about that. Either way, I'd like to think that, if you had told him, he would have appreciated your love, because you deserve to have it appreciated, John.
You're honestly blushing. No one has ever told you anything like that before. The whole thing oddly reminds you of Sherlock, and you're not sure why, because it's certainly not something he would have ever said. The conversation changes after that, but you cannot stop yourself from smiling, whenever you think of that one comment.
It's your birthday. You only remember as you're forcing your way through some toast, and you only really care because Molly and Lestrade are taking you out for a meal, later on today. They refused to listen to your adamant response that you didn't want to do anything for it, and in the end, you had to grudgingly accept. You are slightly looking forward to it, actually – if nothing else, it'll be nice to spend time with Greg and Molly.
When you go back into the living room, Mrs Hudson is standing there with two packages in her hand.
"Happy Birthday, dear," she says kindly, a smile on her face. "This one's from me, and the other one was on the doorstep, this morning." She hands over her gift first. Feeling genuine affection for the woman in front of you, you open the blue wrapping paper to reveal a knitted midnight blue jumper that looks so warm and cosy. You're not at all surprised to find that it is incredibly soft to the touch.
"Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson," you reply, giving her the biggest hug that you can manage.
"You're welcome – it's nice to see you're looking a little happier." You see the tiniest traces of tears in her eyes, and it makes you hug her all the more. When you finally part, you pick up the other gift, which is wrapped perfectly in a silver wrapping. On the top is white ribbon. There is no card, as far as you can see, but you get the feeling that it's probably from Mycroft. You carefully unwrap the paper, almost not wanting to ruin just how beautiful it looks. There is a plain white box inside, which you pull the lid off of. Inside is a wonderful, dark grey duffle coat and a blue scarf that reminds you of Sherlock's. You fight the urge to smell the scarf, just to see if it is somehow his.
"Those are nice. Does it say who it's from anywhere?" Mrs Hudson asks. You check the box, as well as the objects inside, but there is nothing. No card or anything.
"No, but it's probably Mycroft," you explain.
"Most likely. He is an odd fellow. How about I bake you a cake for later?"
"Oh, you don't have to do that…"
"No, I insist. How about a nice Victoria Sponge?"
You don't bother arguing. "That sounds wonderful. Thank you."
"Excellent. I'll get started in a little while, and I shall see you later."
When she leaves you alone, you grab the scarf and bring it to your face. When there is no particular smell to it, you feel more than a little disappointed. That doesn't mean you don't love the scarf, though, and you plan to wear it later, along with the new coat.
Last minute, just five minutes before Greg was going to turn up, you made the decision to leave Ben a message to let him know that you wouldn't be online, adding that it was your birthday, as an afterthought.
You're now with Greg and Molly at a rather nice restaurant. It is busy but not in a way that makes it claustrophobic, and the staff seem pleasant enough. As always, the conversation is plentiful, and your laughter is genuine enough. This is exactly what you need, and you're not sure why you don't accept their offers more often. Good food that you can actually stomach and good company immediately helps your mood, and you barely think of Sherlock.
After the meal, Greg and Molly seem to pull gifts from seemingly nowhere. Greg hands over what looks like a card, but it is actually two football match tickets, dated a few months away.
"I thought you and I could go," he says, smiling.
"That sounds great. Cheers," you reply with.
"This is my gift," Molly explains, sounding a little nervous. "It's not much, I'm afraid."
"Don't worry about it, Molly – I'm sure I'll love it." You unwrap the rather messily wrapped present and find a v-necked black jumper inside. Your smile widens. Clearly, everyone knows about your love of jumpers.
"Thank you, Molly. It's amazing."
She blushes a little and smiles. "It's my pleasure."
You arrive back at 221b Baker Street, feeling a little tipsy. It's given you a pleasant buzz, and you find yourself grabbing a second slice of the cake Mrs Hudson had baked for you earlier, despite eating so much more than you usually do. It's soft and moist, and it goes perfectly with a cup of tea. Setting them both down next to the laptop, you go online to find a message from Ben.
Ben: I didn't know it was your birthday. Happy birthday, John! I hope you have a great time with your friends. If I don't speak to you until tomorrow, I hope the rest of your birthday is great.
According to the messenger, Ben has just come online, and he wastes no time in wishing you another happy birthday.
John: Thank you. It's been a nice evening.
Ben: Glad to hear it. Enjoy your time with your friends?
John: Yes cheers. It was nice to get out for a bit.
Ben: I'm happy for you. Listen, I've been thinking, and I was wondering if you want to meet up sometime this week?
Your stomach flips a little uncomfortably. As much as you get on with him, meeting him is something completely different. It's not that you're worried about him turning out to be a killer, or anything, seeing as you believe you can handle yourself pretty well. It's the fact that you don't want it to be awkward between the two of you, and then you end up never speaking to each other again. As much as you hate to admit it, Ben's calming demeanour and wit has kept you going, over the past few months, and you're not sure what you'd do without him. On the other hand, it would be interesting to meet him, seeing as you're not even sure what he looks like, and it might be a good motivation to leave the house more, something you still rarely do. Ben would never replace Sherlock, but it felt nice to have another close friend, despite the slight guilt and worry you feel that Sherlock would think you were replacing him. Finally, you make up your mind.
John: Yeah sure. Whens good for you?
Ben: How about tomorrow? Around 1 o'clock?
John: Sounds like a plan.
Ben: Excellent.
You and Ben plan the best place to meet, which is a park a little while from where you live. Apparently, he knows the area pretty well, which is useful. When you ask what he looks like, just so you have a vague image in your head to work with, all he says is "you'll know me, when you see me. Trust me." It's an ambiguous answer at best, and it does nothing to help the nerves that are starting to erupt in the pit of your stomach.
That night, you go to bed with your stomach turning and your heart racing. You're not even sure why it's making you so nervous; it's just you and another bloke meeting up. It's not anything that majorly important, really. Not that your anxiety is listening to you. In fact, it seems to have gotten worse, and you're honestly a little worried that it's genuine nausea. Eventually, though, you fall into a restless sleep.
You're walking towards the park, with your stomach and chest currently dancing, from the feel of it. Despite trying to avoid it, you can't help but think of Sherlock.
"I'm not replacing you, don't worry," you mutter to thin air. Of course, there is no reply back, but you're not expecting one.
The park is pretty deserted, despite the fairly warm weather, which you hope means that finding Ben is going to be easier. There is a slight breeze in the air, and you can smell the flowers growing nearby. It really is a lovely day for a walk.
Your footsteps feel oddly heavy, as you head towards the bench where you agreed to meet him. There's someone sitting there, but you can only see the back of their head. You wonder if it's Ben, and your stomach flips accordingly. It probably is. This is it, you realise. The moment of truth. This meeting could make or break your friendship.
You final reach the front of the bench, and you stare at the person sitting on it. The "excuse me" that was about to come out dies in your throat, as it closes up. It cannot be. This cannot be real. You start to hyperventilate, and you take a step back as claustrophobia wraps around your body.
Those too-blue eyes that you never thought you'd see again are staring straight at you.
"John," he whispers, sounding concerned. You can only just hear him, but he might as well have shouted, as his voice echoes painfully through your brain. It is the voice you only hear in dreams, anymore. You don't understand. You've clearly finally lost it. Everything you've done to try and stop the hurt seems utterly pointless, right now, seeing as it seems to have finally completely consumed you.
"John, listen to me – I'm real," he argues, standing up now to his full height. "I had to pretend to be dead, but I'm back now." He reaches out to touch you, and for a split second, you feel those hands on you, but you yell and push him away. So much anger and hurt and confusion burn their way through your veins. There is relief there, of course there is, but it's hard to feel anything other than hurt, because he fucking lied to you.
"John, I need you to listen to me, I –" but you don't let him finish. Without even thinking about it, you punch him straight in the face. You know that he knew it was going to happen, and that he could easily have dodged it, and you almost appreciate that he didn't, because it feels stupidly good to watch as he staggers back. It confirms that he is alive.
You watch as he slowly stands back up. There is a red mark on his cheek, and you get an odd sense of satisfaction from it. His face is the usually blank canvas, but those eyes tell a different story. You hate that you're so goddamn proud that you can still read him, even after all this time. It's been far too long.
"Can we go somewhere where we can talk?" There is a slight pleading in his voice. It's barely there – it's more of a subtle tinge than anything. Sherlock Bloody Holmes never pleads, except when he's about to jump off a building. Then he can lie to you and say sweet nothings, because it doesn't matter, because poor, sad John Watson will do everything he says. You're pathetic. He is your undoing. If you were ever much to begin with, that is.
"Fine." You keep your tone distant.
The journey back is the epitome of awkwardness. You see him stare at your cane more than once, and you want to throw the damn wooden stick away out of defiance, as if to say "your supposed death didn't hurt me that much," but the damage is done, and he now knows how much your life revolved – revolves – around him.
You both step into 221b Baker Street, and it's just like old times, except it isn't, because the pink mark is still on his face, and you're still walking with a limp. Everything's so wrong. It's the one thing you've wished for, over the past two and a half years, and now it's all so messed up.
Another bubble of anger sweeps over you, as you see him looking at everything in the room, except for you, like he's ashamed of the shadow you've become – like he's just realised that only one of you died that day. You're so mad that you go to grab him, to shake him into looking at you, because surely you deserve even that, when your leg gives way. You're falling. You try and stop yourself, but no one truly wins against gravity – except for Sherlock Holmes, of course, it seems. You expect to hit the floor, but instead your head hits his chest, as he swoops down to catch you. The smell of cigarettes and expensive aftershave and the smell that is so definably Sherlock shoots straight up your nostrils. It's so familiar, and so safe, and so perfect, and oh god, it hasn't changed at all. Hot tears make stream down your face, despite your defiance, and you try and cover up your moment of weakness, but he doesn't let you. Pulling you back slightly, so you can see his face, with his no more than six inches away, he cups your cheek with one hand and wipes them away gently, as if handling something fragile and…and precious. That idea pushes out more tears, and you give up trying to stop them; your dignity is long gone. And yet, when you finally manage to look him in the eye, you see the tiniest hints of tears in his eyes, and that is the last thing you were expecting.
When the tears dry up, he brings your head back onto his chest and just stays there. You're not sure how long you stay there for, but you honestly don't care, at this point. Now the anger has finally passed, you allow yourself to be happy that he's back. You finally got your miracle. Despite everything, you catch yourself smiling. Your chest feels heavy, as heavy as the gun did that day, but you don't care about that either. All that matters is that his smell his real and so is he.
Exhaustion begins to make itself known, and you fight back a yawn, but of course Sherlock has already spotted it.
"Let's get you to bed, John, and then we'll talk later," he mutters. Somehow, despite his skinniness, he manages to haul you up with relative ease. You assume he is planning to take you to your bedroom, but instead, he drags you into the kitchen.
"You've lost at least three stone, you know," he points out, as he leads you to the chair in the kitchen.
"Yes, well, I thought I could do with losing a few pounds," you remark.
"That's more than a few pounds, and you were perfect the way you were." It is a perfectly normal thing for people to say, but it is a borderline compliment from Sherlock, and you find yourself looking down a little in embarrassment.
"I'm going to make you some toast, and you're going to eat it."
"Only if you do." Those are your terms, and you're sticking to them.
He looks at you, weighing up his options, before finally accepting.
Five minutes later, you're sitting there in silence whilst both forcing down toast. The silence isn't as awkward as it was on the journey back, but it's certainly not the companionable silence that you are used to. During the time, you look at Sherlock properly for the first time. He is even thinner than usual, showing by how his face is much more gaunt, and the bags under his eyes look as obnoxious as your own. It's a slightly unnerving sight. You feel relieved, when you've both finally finished eating.
Sherlock is suddenly standing up, and he holds out his hand to you. Feeling a little unsure, you place your hand into his, and he gently pulls you up.
"Your cane is in the living room, but you do not need it. Lean on me."
And you nod in agreement because you still trust him, even after all the lies. His hand moves from your hand to around your waist, and you follow suit, allowing yourself to take most of the weight off your 'bad' leg.
With every step, you become more and more accustomed to him being your crutch, and if this isn't some visual representation of just how much this bloody beautiful man has done for you, over the short time of being friends, you don't know what is. The stairs are a little more awkward, but you both manage, and you're relieved because the day's events have completely worn you out, and it's not even 3pm. But as you reach your bedroom, you're struck with the fear that, when you wake up, he'll be gone again, or it'll turn out to just be a dream. As he places you onto your bed, you gather up all the willpower to ask him to stay in the room, at least for a little while. You still need the bastard, like you need oxygen.
"Sherlock, I…" you seem to lose your voice. His eyes move over you like a scanner, obviously trying to work out what you need.
"Do you want me to stay with you?" he asks. There is no mocking in his voice, but all you manage is a pathetic nod, because you're so damn ashamed that you need him to be here.
"All right then, I'll stay. I'm not going anywhere." He pulls the chair that's at the desk, until it's situated as close to the bed as he can manage. You're grateful and, as you climb under the covers, you manage the smallest of smiles. The worry that he'll disappear is still there, of course, but the thoughts are not quite so probing, now that you'll be able to open your eyes and see him sitting right there.
Despite this, you still can't settle, and you're still tossing and turning half an hour later. You find yourself checking that he's still there, even when you can feel his eyes on you.
"John," Sherlock whispers, "give me your hand."
You're more than a little confused, but you lie on your back and stretch your arm out. Sherlock hesitantly sits on the bed, and suddenly his hands are cupping yours, and you understand exactly what he's doing. He's ensuring that you don't have to check that he's still there.
"Goodnight, John," is the last thing you hear, before sleep finally arrives.
You wake up, several hours later, feeling a little disorientated. You barely recall going to bed. Then it all comes swooping back, and it's as if you're suddenly hyperaware of the body next to yours. Your hands are no longer joined, but he's still there, and he's fast asleep, his head lying against your arm. Being careful that you don't accidently wake him, you sit up ever so slightly and turn your lamp on, so you can get a proper look at him. Even in the gentle light of the bedside lamp, he still looks beautiful. His skin is pale and so soft-looking, that it takes all your willpower to not stroke it. His mouth is open a little. You're not sure why, but this makes you smile. With the utmost care, you push a lock of black hair out of his face and tuck it behind his ear. Then you turn the lamp back off and settle down.
It is in the darkness, lying only a few inches away from the man that you love, that you realise that Sherlock was Ben all along. It should have been obvious, but it wasn't. Not for one second. A cold realisation hits you, all of a sudden: he knows you're in love with him. This utterly horrifies you, and you're honestly surprised that he dares be in the same room as you, never mind the same bed. He is married to The Work, after all. The treacherous part of your mind is a little hopeful, despite all you know about Sherlock, simply because of his reply, when you told 'Ben'. 'Either way, I'd like to think that, if you had told him, he would have appreciated your love, because you deserve to have it appreciated, John.' It could have been Sherlock merely playing a role, something you've seen him do often, but you're not sure. You're not even sure what you'd do, if he woke up and confessed to you, right now. There's simply too much hurt there, and you need to know exactly why he had to lie, before you even consider forgiving him. It's not even the fast that he lied, that you have the biggest problem with. No, it's the principle, and it's the simple fact that he did it with seemingly no consideration towards your feelings. Surely he must have known that it would destroy you, to see him die like that? Or maybe he really is that socially inept. You just don't know.
All you know is that you're going to be asking him plenty of questions, come morning.
You're sitting in your favourite chair and looking at the man you thought was dead. Sherlock is looking as calm and aloof as always, lying on the sofa with his hands together in a prayer-like pose, and it's moments like this that you wish you knew what he was thinking – that you could just stare at him and know everything, just like he does.
Neither of you have mentioned the fact that you woke up in each other's arms, and it looks as though it is staying that way. Not that you particularly mind, seeing as there are more pressing matters, right now. You cannot help but feel a little anxious about finally knowing the truth.
"Are you ready to…answer my questions now?" You ask, feeling incredibly awkward.
"Of course. Ask away."
You take a deep breath, trying to stop your erratic heartbeat. You can do this. This is what you've been waiting for.
"Why, Sherlock? Why did you jump that day?"
"To put it simply: it's because I had to. I knew what Moriarty wanted me to do, and so I planned accordingly, and of course, it was to jump off the building," he explains, as though he is talking about the weather. It's a little unnerving, but you still find yourself hanging onto every word.
"He owed me a fall, he said. If I didn't fall that day, he would have killed you…as well as Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He had three of the best assassins there to kill you all, and I had no choice, seeing as he killed himself before I could deduce what word he came up with to the stop them."
It makes sense, and it certainly sounds like something Moriarty would do, but something doesn't quite add up. Sherlock jumped, like Moriarty asked, so why did he need to stay dead for such a long time? It doesn't make sense.
"I…I don't understand. If Moriarty is dead, and they watched you fall, then why did you need to stay dead?"
"Because, as soon as they knew I was alive, they would carry out their mission regardless. Moriarty chose people who were loyal to a fault, despite being criminals. I needed to take them out without them knowing, and then continue taking out the rest of his organisation."
"But surely you could have at least told me? I wouldn't have told anyone. I thought you trusted me…" You wait for his answer, watching as he seems to be considering his words, but each second seems to increase the ache in your heart. You've always been afraid of this, even before you fell in love with him – that you see your friendship as more than he does. It feels like hours, before he finally starts talking.
"Of course I…trust you. I was just…concerned that, if I brought you with me, I would not be able to protect you, and I-I couldn't live with myself, if something bad happened to you, John." Watching him force out his words, in that way that he does, when he's talking about his feelings, is incredibly endearing.
"The only way I could almost guarantee your safety was for you to be in the dark about the whole thing, and if that meant I had to not see you for a while, then so be it."
"Did you consider my feelings at all?" you grind out, feeling incredibly irritated. You know he had your best interests at heart, but you're not a child, and you've certainly had more than enough experience in combat. You're not such why he would feel the need to protect you so much, especially seeing as Moriarty is dead.
"Of course I considered your feelings!" he snaps. You're surprised by his outburst, but you're even more surprised to find that he looks…almost sad, really. And distressed. His entire body language changes, right before your eyes, almost as if he's shutting off. You get the feeling that something's confusing him, possibly an emotion he isn't used to. Following your instincts, you move to the sofa and sit on the edge of it, staring at Sherlock, who looks as though he's almost arguing with himself. He's muttering furiously, but you can't hear what he's saying.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me," you say, sounding more confident than you feel. He snaps his eyes up and looks at you, and there's so many emotions flowing through those eyes, that you find your breath getting caught in your throat.
"I'm sorry about what I said, but I need you to tell me what's going through your mind, so that I can understand." You keep your tone as gentle as possible. Yelling at him will solve nothing.
"Everything, John. Everything is going through my mind. I thought that by saying I was a fraud, that you'd hate me, so it wouldn't upset you so much, but I-I was wrong. How could I have been so wrong? I did it all for you – I did it all to protect you – and all I did was hurt you!" He's yelling, by the end of it, and he's brought his knees to his chest, clutching onto them tightly. You cannot help but think of him as being like a confused, frightened child.
"It hurt, of course it did, but you're back now, and that's all that matters."
"No, no it isn't. I saw you hurting – I watched it and did nothing about it. I wanted to come back to you. God, I wanted to so much, but I couldn't. It hurt me too – I've never needed anyone else before. People were nothing but sadly necessary parts of my life, and then you came and changed me, and I should hate you for it, I know I should, but I can't!" He's practically pulling out his hair now, and it's a heartbreaking sight. It's difficult to tell exactly what he is saying, but you're pretty sure he just said he needs you, and, damn, if your heart didn't beat a little faster because of it. You also feel guilty, because not once, since you found out that he is alive, did you consider how the whole thing would have affected him. After all, even though he knew you were alive, it could not have been easy. But you cannot dwell on these thoughts, right now; you need to help Sherlock, who is currently having a meltdown.
Leaning forward, you grab both of his hands and place them onto your hands, just like he did, the night before. You rub them gently, and you hope that it's helping him calm down.
"It's okay, Sherlock," you say to try and reassure him. "I know that being away from me upset you as well, but we're both together again, right? Things can go back to normal again."
He's staring at you again. It's more with confusion than anything else, this time.
"I don't think it can go back to how it was before," he whispers.
You feel as though someone is reaching into your chest and is squeezing your heart. You should have known that your feelings for him would push him away. When you go to move your hands away, in embarrassment and shame, he stops you. He squeezes your hand gently.
"I need to say this now, John, or I never will." You hear him take a deep breath, and your own breathing seems to have stopped as well. "It cannot go back to the way it was before, because my…feelings for you are not what they were. I feel for you in a way that I…um…shouldn't, and I'm finding it difficult to control myself."
Your mouth is dry, but you force out six words, "what do you want to do?"
There is silence for over a minute, and you can feel the nerves coming off Sherlock in waves.
"I want to kiss you, John…and I shouldn't."
You've never felt so happy and so confused, at the same time. But you're confused as to why he feels he shouldn't feel that way, especially seeing as he already knows your feelings – Ben could not have been anyone else.
"Why should you not feel that way?" you ask, feeling a little hopeful. Even though you questioned whether you'd be with him, the night before, you should have known that you could never say no to Sherlock. Especially about something like this.
"Don't you see? I do not deserve your love. As I said that night, and I'm sure you have already worked out that I was Ben all along, that you need some who can appreciate it, and I cannot do that. Relationships have never, and will never, be my strong point. You deserve more."
Despite everything, you find yourself laughing a little. Not in a malicious way, but because this man in front of you is looking so awkward and so cute, that you cannot help it. He's frowning now, obviously confused as to why you're laughing.
"Oh Sherlock, a part of appreciating someone else's love is appreciating who they are, and I'd say you do a pretty good job of that, considering," you explain, grinning.
He's still frowning. "I don't understand," he forces out, and it's certainly not something Sherlock admits to often.
"What I'm saying is that…well, a relationship is a lot like a friendship, only with…with other things added..."
"Like sex?" Sherlock says, interrupting. You find yourself turning a little pink.
"Yes, like sex, but with intimacy and other things added. I know you, and I'm pretty sure I can guess as to what you'd be like in a relationship, but it hasn't put me off, and would you like to know why?"
He nods, and he looks fully intrigued now, but there's still a little bit of nervousness there.
"Because all your quirks and brilliance and awkwardness is what I fell in love with, so why would I want or need anything else?"
"So, it's…all right, if I…you know…"
"Just kiss me, you prat."
And Sherlock does just that. Your first thoughts are that his lips are soft, and that this is what you've been waiting for, for so long. It's awkward, but it's still perfect, and your lips mould together, like they're destined to be that way, as cheesy as that sounds. There are no tongues. Only desperation, because it's been too long – far too long – since you last saw each other. It's everything you expected it to be and more, and one day, you'll feel that it was worth the wait. Not right now, because the past few years still hurt. But one day. You place your hands against his cheeks, bringing yourself closer. You're taking control but, hopefully, not enough to bring him too much out of his comfort zone.
When you finally pull away, Sherlock's lips are pink and a little swollen, and he has honestly never looked more gorgeous. You pull him to your chest, and you just sit there. No words are needed. As much as it's going to take time for you to fully accept that he's back, and a little while longer for you to completely forgive him, you know now that you can do it, and you want to do it. His hands are wrapped around yours, and that's how they stay.
He's not going anywhere. And neither are you.
It's been six months since Sherlock's return, and life is back to normal, at 221b Baker Street. When the media found out that he was alive, there was a media storm, especially when more and more information coming up that proved that Sherlock was never a fake, and that Jim Moriarty was very, very real. It had only been a month since they'd finally left them alone, to go after 'the next big thing'. You're grateful for the small amount of peace.
Sherlock, now his name has been cleared, is back to working cases, but it doesn't consume his entire life – only fifty percent of it. You don't mind because, once the case is done, you get him back properly, and you're certainly not going to deny him his happiness. During the times when the criminals appear to be taking a holiday, he drags you on dates that range from visiting the mortuary to going to expensive restaurants. No matter where you end up going, you always have fun regardless. One of your favourite dates happened because you'd watch some romantic comedy on the TV, and the man had taken a woman to a fairground, and so of course, Sherlock had to take you to one. It had been genuinely fun, even after Sherlock had made the Fortune Teller cry. It was all so Sherlock, and it was all completely wonderful.
You have gotten over your fear of him leaving, and you no longer have nightmares about him dying, and your relationship is better for it. As much as Sherlock seemed understanding, and he would hold you when you woke up crying, you could tell he felt guilty, and you didn't want him to feel that way anymore. Now he just clings to you in bed, whether you're having a nightmare or not, and you're certainly not going to complain.
Although your relationship hadn't reached the point of sex yet, you can honestly say you don't mind. Sherlock isn't quite ready for it yet, and that's perfectly fine. He's getting better all the time at affection, and he's now able to be the one who initiates things, rather than waiting for you to do it. He even kisses you in front of Anderson and Donovan, much to their horror and your delight. The best way to describe Sherlock's love is that it is the same as every aspect of his life: he puts everything into it. Of course he still annoys you sometimes, seeing as he steals the covers and still does horrifying experiments, but he also makes you tea and gives you his version of a comforting hug, as soon as he knows you've had a bad day. To anyone else, it would seem like an odd relationship, but it works for you two, and that's all the matters.
The two years without him feel like an odd memory now – like a dream you had long ago. It's not something you often think about, anymore. Only when something brings it back, like a smell or a sudden memory, do you think about it, but it no longer holds the same power over you; it doesn't stop you in your tracks. Now, all you do is go over to Sherlock and kiss him, which he doesn't mind at all. You wonder if he knows why, and knowing him, he probably does, but he never says anything. He just kisses you back with all the enthusiasm in the world.
And that's fine with you. In fact, it's more than fine.
It's perfect.
Author's Note: There we have it. I hope you enjoyed it. The whole he/He thing is supposed to represent John's state of mind, and I hope it wasn't too confusing. Feel free to send me any constructive criticism.