This started out as a Halloween ghost story and ended up with my feels devastated. If you've ever missed someone so much that you think you see them in a crowd, or hear their voice somewhere, this is dedicated to you. I know I should have continued one of my other stories, but for me, one-shots are few and far between. Plus, I'm writing, so I call it an accomplishment!
Thank you for reading and comments are love.
The first time John thought he heard his voice, he was standing on the room of St. Barts two months after Sherlock jumped. It was an unusually chilly June morning as clouds were starting to roll in and a small breeze made John pull his jacket closer to himself. He didn't stand on the ledge like Sherlock did, his fear of heights preventing him from doing so. He chided himself well.
'John.'
The voice was next to his ear, but when John turned, no one was there. His name was whispered so clearly; like a statement, simple and precise, like Sherlock.
Shaking his head, John turned and left the roof.
The second time was a hot July afternoon. No breeze, no wind, no clouds. Just the heat from the building and a humidity that made you breath a little harder. John wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow as he took baby steps closer to the ledge. He could see the sidewalk at the far side of the street and he took a step back. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to control the panic that had risen. Drawing in a deep breath, he grabbed the bottle of water he sat by his feet and straightened.
'My note...'
He almost spit out the water. Again the voice was clear, and yet, no one was there. He looked in all directions, making sure no one else was on the roof with him. Taking the last drink of water, he closed his eyes, concentrating on the noises on the streets surrounding him. It was mid-afternoon, and despite the heat, London was alive with her people rushing about their ordinary lives.
John sighed. He was starting to think his mind was playing tricks on him. But when he started seeing a dark curly head bobbing about in a crowd, or a glimpse of a long black coat, or even smell Sherlock he thought it was just his head reminding him not to forget Sherlock. He laughed at himself whenever he told himself that. How could he forget Sherlock? That was like forgetting he had a right hand.
Maybe he needed to cut off his hand.
However, when John heard Sherlock's voice a third and forth time, he knew something was amiss. He brought Molly up the fifth time. It was the week of Halloween, and John knew Molly was just doing it to appease him; it was nice to have someone else on the roof with him.
"I'm sorry, John," she said after they stood in comfortable silence for a half an hour. "I don't...I just don't hear anything but the buzz of the city."
John had always liked Molly, and her touch on his arm was comforting.
"It's okay, Molly," John gave her an exhausted smile. She saw that it didn't reach his eyes.
'You look sad. When you think he can't see you.' The words echoed like a mantra through Molly's head ever since Sherlock jumped. The sadness in John's eyes was almost too much to bear.
"Um, Greg and I are going to have a pint tonight at the new pub down the street. You should join us," Molly suggested as she turned her gaze down the street she was talking about.
John followed her gaze toward the streetlights and frowned. He hadn't really talked to anyone since the funeral; just Mrs. Hudson after she grabbed his things from the flat for him.
"I think," he started, and paused. His gaze went to Molly's expectant expression. "I think I will join you, thank you. But I need to cut out early, I have to work tomorrow."
"Great," Molly said as they turned to leave the roof. She wrapped her arms around herself as she rubbed her arms. "How is the new job going?"
"Good. Well, thank you," John responded as he paused halfway down the stairs, and patted his pockets, realizing he had left his mobile on the roof. He had set it down to record the voice, if they heard it. He told Molly as he turned back to the roof.
"Okay, I have a couple more things I need to do in the lab, so meet me there."
John nodded and trotted the rest of the way up the stairs, opened the door and found his phone a few steps away from the door on a tiny ledge. He tapped the phone to stop the recording.
'Stay ... John...'
John froze. The hairs on his neck rose as gooseflesh formed on his whole body. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he breathed heavily through his nose.
"Sherlock," his own voice faded into the small breeze that formed. He finally swallowed and looked around. No one. Just like before. He raked his hand over his face and groaned.
John didn't go back to the roof, nor did he listen to his phone until mid-December. A light dusting of snow covered the ground and Christmas lights were strung everywhere. Everything seemed light and airy , but John Watson's footsteps were heavy and lead him to St. Barts. He had a little too much to drink at the Pub. Molly offered to share a cab, and Greg even offered a ride, but John refused, saying he should walk his drunk off before going home to sleep it off.
When John looked up at the imposing building, his mind felt sober, as if the walk between the Pub and this spot had actually cleared his head. He sighed and watched his breath come out in one long white puff.
Where's your next step going to lead you, John? He thought when he lifted his foot. Are you going to face your fears? Slay your dragons? Or just go home and never know what you've been hearing on that roof? What if it is Sherlock, talking to you from beyond the grave?
Oh, that's brilliant, John, you've lost the plot!
"Idiot." He muttered to himself as he stepped towards the fateful building.
Snow started to fall as John climbed the stairs to the roof. When he opened the door to the roof, the city light illuminated the snow in an amber glow and he watched and listened for a moment. The small breeze ruffled his hair and the snow seemed to dampen the sounds of London's city life. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked towards the ledge, stopping before he got too close. Swallowing the panic, he willed himself to move closer, but his feet didn't move.
"I am angry at you, Sherlock," he hated that his voice broke every time he said his name. "I don't understand why you...why you killed yourself. It's...you're not a fraud. There are plenty of people who believe in you."
He paused to swallow the lump in his throat.
"I believed in you Sherlock. I wish that was enough for you, but obviously it wasn't!" John was shouting into the empty night. "You don't have many friends. But you do have one best friend. And to me you were the best man..."
John sniffed.
'Not a hero, John.'
Hairs on his neck rose as he swore he felt the breath on his ear that time. Turning, all he saw was empty space and a flurry of snowflakes.
"Sherlock..." his voice faded into the night. John took a step backwards and his boot hit the ledge. He reached his hands out to balance himself. Drawing in a deep breath, he looked over the ledge. John's hands became clammy, but he didn't experience the normal panic he usually did when he looked down from a great height.
'Stay John...'
John started at the voice.
"Why? Tell me why?" He looked around again. "Give me a reason I shouldn't just leap off this building like you did?"
Silence.
"Oh, that's comforting," he lifted his leg to climb on the ledge.
'...exactly where you are.'
"What?" John thought he saw another flurry of snowflakes where there was no breeze. He shivered.
'...my note.'
Now the voice wasn't making any sense.
John nodded and straightened his back. Lifting a shaking leg, he managed to stand on the ledge, facing away from the street.
Maybe if I really threaten, I can hear his voice before I jump.
His body was vibrating with fear as was his voice.
"What do you think, now? I'll jump. I have no one anymore."
'...exactly where you are.'
John turned his head to hear better. The snow flurried again.
"You were my best friend." John closed his eyes.
'Stay exactly where you are.'
He opened his eyes and the snow was flying every where around him. There was no breeze.
"I know you're for real."
'100%?'
"Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time." John closed his eyes again and a single tear ran down his cheek.
'Stay exactly where you are. Wait for me. Believe in miracles.'
John could swear that he felt a warm hand brush away his tears, and when he opened his eyes, Sherlock's face was right in front of his. He could almost feel him breathing.
'John don't move.'
And he was gone, replaced with Molly and Greg running toward him.
He smiled.
"I will wait for you, Sherlock."