Sherlock had to admit: life was better now that John was in his. Sure, he still had that... feeling, but with John around, he didn't think about it as much. One could even say it left for a while when John was by his side. No, when John was busy simply being an ordinary human, Sherlock almost forgot the feeling that something about his was life was very, very wrong.
John was perfectly content to distract Sherlock when his own genius betrayed him, and the boredom set in. The detective got especially irritable when he was bored, when there was nothing to stimulate his brain and drown out the noises and the feeling and the sense of hopelessness he felt he had no reason to feel. But nothing kept him at bay when he was alone. Sometimes, at night or when John was out, he could hear the noises more clearly. Faint beeps keeping a steady rhythm, sounding as if it were in the room, and miles away at the same time. Occasionally, he would hear his own name, as if from a great distance, and his whole existence would feel... wrong. But then John would get home, or the morning would come, and his friend's presence would assure him that he existed and nothing was unusual in it.
Sherlock was content with this. He had his blogger follow him on all cases and chases, sat with him at dinner, and drank tea with him in the living room at night. He let John correct him when he said something 'a bit not good' (an act that his own brother had gotten a tantrum for when attempted), and he let the good doctor yell at him when he redecorated the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and both bedroom walls with bullets. Sherlock was just happy that he existed, and that John existed, and that the world finally felt like all was as it should be.
One evening well into their friendship, John and Sherlock were spending a typical night full of tea and comfortable silence, and Sherlock was happy. In fact, he was smiling. Grinning uncontrollably and uncharacteristically. "What?" John finally asked, a smile playing on his own lips.
"Nothing. I'm just really glad we're friends."
And the night resumed as normal, just as simple as that. A gentle warmth was spreading through the flat, filling Sherlock and John and the space between them. And Sherlock was happy. He began to feel more and more tired throughout the evening, and by the end of it, he was more exhausted than he had ever felt before. The genius was having a hard time keeping his eyes open on the couch, but he didn't feel like fighting to stay awake. Until now, his whole life had felt like a struggle to stay conscious. But right then, in front of the window that gave a glimpse of the gentle rain descending on London, on his comfy couch, with his friend by his side, he felt peaceful and ready to sleep. Sure, the beeps were suddenly louder and less distant, but John was there, so everything was alright. He felt warm from head to toe as he closed his eyes, the smile still on his lips. "It's all going to be OK, Sherlock. I promise." He heard John say, for some odd reason, just as the beeping became one flat tone, and he fell asleep.
Mycroft peeked through the window and into the room for the third time in five minutes, a frown creasing his forehead. His seven year-old brother still had not opened his eyes. Though, he hadn't done so in the past four months, so why would he in those five minutes? The teen gripped his umbrella tighter, still wet from the shower outside that had started on his walk to the hospital earlier that day, and persisted even now. Mycroft missed Sherlock's curls. He missed the way his younger brother's unique silver eyes would shine mischievously through the black forest that constantly looked like it needed a trim. He missed Sherlock's test tubes lying all around the house and the small experiments causing messes the teen was forced to clean up. He even missed Sherlock's sass, believe it or not.
Growing up, he'd always found the kid increasingly annoying, always touching his things, throwing large tantrums at the drop of a hat, and never quite catching the 'social lessons' Mycroft tried to make him understand, so he'd grow up to be a functional adult. But one word, one instant, one life-changing second, can often alter an opinion quickly. The word that changed the eighteen year-old? Cancer.
And for a year, that was the only thing Mycroft could hear inside his own head, and out. Every time Sherlock pouted over being denied ingredients for an experiment, every time his brother whined about his boredom, every time he came home to find some possession of his dismantled 'for science', the word dominated the elder Holmes's thoughts. But Mycroft refused to let it get to him. When Sherlock began to lose his hair, when he came home from treatments weak and getting sick all night, when he missed weeks of school because his tiny frame couldn't even stand, Mycroft refused to break. But now, fifteen months since diagnosis, and four months into his little brother's coma, it was getting to him.
The doctor was still talking to his mother behind him, but Mycroft didn't want to hear. He already knew that Sherlock was going to die, but saying it out loud would make it real, and make it worse. When the doctor and his mother were done speaking, Mummy Holmes had to excuse herself to have her cry and compose herself, leaving Mycroft alone with the man who had tried, and failed, to save his oldest and dearest companion. "Doctor? He started smiling just a minute ago. Does that mean he's waking up?"
The medical man only shook his head sadly. "He's been doing that off and on for the last week. More often today than any other. Sometimes, when people wake up from a coma, they report having lived whole other lives. Growing up, getting married, succeeding in many things, even doing the things they'd wish they'd done in this life. Maybe your brother is 'living' another life in his head.
Mycroft sighed and looked at the peaceful, happy smile that seemed to reanimate his brother's pale, sickly face. "At least in that one, he's happy." And a flat tone filled the air and broke his heart.
There was white everywhere. It was blinding and confusing. Sherlock ran his hand through his curls and turned and spun and looked around. He'd been in the living room of 221B not two minutes ago. Now, he had no idea where he was. He looked down and saw that he was wearing his favorite black suit pants and his favorite purple top, neither of which he'd fallen asleep on the couch white began to fade slowly, until it became a mix of reds, oranges, purples, yellows; as if he were standing in the heart of a sunset. Except he found he was standing on a cloud. He curled his bare toes against the soft condensed vapor carpet under them, feeling strangely calm and comfortable in this place. Wherever he was. The twilight around him was vibrant, filled with life and energy, and the colors swirled and dipped and streaked like an oil painting created meticulously by God himself. Sherlock stepped forward carefully, and found that the cloud supported his weight, sending a puff of mist to float around his ankle when he touched down once more. "Well, this is highly illogical." He mumbled to himself.
"Sherlock?" A familiar voice came from behind him. Sherlock turned slowly, and found his only friend standing before him in his jeans and that ridiculous oatmeal jumper that the detective secretly loved. A warm smile spread across John's face and Sherlock felt tears stinging behind his eyes. He walked forward to stand right in front of the angel and smiled back, letting out a small laugh through his tears. John's large wings stretched high behind him, the deep brown color accented with brilliant golds and striking silvers. They were the most comforting thing Sherlock had seen in a long time. "I told you everything was going to be alright." Sherlock collapsed into his angel's arms and hugged him as tight as he could. And it was. It was all OK.