A/N: Finally caved into the post-Reichenbach angst and just had to write a fic of my own. This is an idea I got after listening to the One Direction song, 'Moments'. This is the longest one-shot I've ever written and I've been working on it for quite some time, so I hope you enjoy :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock; it all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Neither do I own any of the work of Ed Sheeran, or One Direction (who wrote and sang the song respectively).
The tall figure, shrouded in darkness, sighed a hefty sigh, gazing out of the window of the flat that had been provided for him. His eyes followed the dark silhouetted London skyline that he could only just make out through the hazy clouds that hung over the horizon, and the blackness of the very room that he sat in, and as he raised his eyes to the stars, he thought about his friend. John had probably shut the doors, turned the light off and was probably stewing in his own desperate thoughts and being washed away with grief, Sherlock thought to himself. Much like he, himself, was doing now.
Sherlock looked at the night sky, remembering the time that he had looked up at the stars and remarked to John that they were beautiful. That had taken John by surprise, though it was painfully obvious that he would be surprised- it wasn't often that Sherlock alluded to anything other than exciting cases as beautiful.
He wished he was with John. Almost a year had passed and, although at first Sherlock found it odd that he was missing John (of course he knew that there would be some sort of nostalgia, he just hadn't expected it to be this strong). It was now clear to Sherlock that he truly missed John and wanted nothing more than to just see him, even if it were for a moment. But of course, the stakes were too high and he couldn't risk it.
Sherlock had never really understood what people meant when they said that they could miss someone so much that it physically hurt, but the situation that he was in now clarified the concept until it was crystal clear, and Sherlock could swear he had an ache or even a hole somewhere where his heart should be.
He wanted to be back in 221B, with John and his jumpers and Mrs Hudson nattering on about how he'd spoiled the latest murder in EastEnders by analysing all the characters. It was a terrible soap anyway- he could guess the 'whodunits' in seconds, he thought to himself, suppressing a grin at how Mrs Hudson had refused to bring him milk for a week after he had deduced that it was Stacey who was Archie Mitchell's killer.
Sherlock murmured "Bless you, Mrs Hudson.", and heaved another sigh. He wanted to wake up in the night, firing shots at the wall, knowing that someone cared enough to stop him and would instead take the time to talk to him, or make him a cup of tea. He wanted to feel something other than pain that was pouring out of the gaping hole in his chest.
He just wanted to be loved. And not romantic love like poor Molly Hooper who stuttered every time he looked at her. He wanted to be loved and cared for, though it was only in this, the darkest of times, that he would admit it. He wanted the love that Mrs Hudson would show when she would fondly hit him for doing something stupid and ending up half dead, or for using up her supply of milk because he could only be bothered to walk downstairs and steal some from her fridge. He wanted John's friendship and the warmth that came out of annoying him. How he would get concerned after seeing Sherlock not sleep or eat for days. How John would try to stop him from finding his stash of cigarettes despite knowing that it was pointless and that Sherlock would find them one way or another.
He wanted to play his violin in the comfort of his living room and look down onto the street, shamelessly informing anyone in the vicinity how the lady with the yellow raincoat was having an affair with the brown haired man waving goodbye to his bespectacled wife, and how the bespectacled wife had met someone new just yesterday and that was why she was so tense watching her husband leave.
He wanted to be on cases and annoy Donovan and insult Anderson, and he still yearned for the familiar easiness of texting John and informing him that there was no milk. He wanted to hear the familiar beep of his phone and know that it was Lestrade offering a new case, not Mycroft checking up on him and rattling off useless details of how the London stock markets had just risen by fourteen percent in an attempt to get him to stop missing home. He just wanted the normal, everyday things, the trivial things that he had taken for granted. He wanted to go home.
It was so cold. He felt so cold. Sherlock remembered with a sad smile how he and John had collapsed on the sofa after the Baskerville incident. It reminded him of the days when he and Mycroft would erect makeshift tents and then fall asleep against the many pillows and cushions and blankets that they had dragged down from every room in the house, tired of chasing monsters and running wild.
He pushed that away from his mind, though, trying to think of his task at hand, but every time he did so, he was reminded of why he had to do this, and how his attempts to forget the world had failed. He had tried for so many hours and days and months to push away these feelings, to go back to the high functioning sociopath state that he so proudly revelled in. He tried to keep his homesickness at bay, yet every time that Mycroft phoned, it was obvious that Sherlock wanted to go home.
Mycroft had taken to phoning as Sherlock would often not bother replying to his texts, which was quite unlike Sherlock- another indicator of his homesickness. Try as he might, Sherlock could never hide anything from Mycroft, maybe before when he had been in London, but now, under Mycroft's protection, which he had only grudgingly taken because it would save his friends, Sherlock could not escape the reality of these feelings and nor could he keep it hidden away from Mycroft. The longing to return home could be felt in his voice when it bled through the (not so strong) walls of his mind, and although he tried, the nostalgia that affected Sherlock almost every minute of every day could not be kept secret.
Sherlock remembers the day of the Fall, and how his heart hammered in his chest when Moriarty had shot himself, leaving Sherlock with no alternative but to jump. It was at that moment that the world seemed to just stop, and time stood still, and the only thing that Sherlock was aware of was the pounding in his ears and the ever increasing beat of his heart.
He remembers looking down at John, whose hands were trembling as he held the phone to his ear, echoing the inner tremor that juddered through John's veins. Seeing John tremble had only made Sherlock do the same, and it was with quivering hands that he held his own phone. And although Sherlock had known that he was going to live, John did not, and that had made the jump all the more harder.
The overwhelming threat of tears was staring Sherlock in the face and he willed them not to fall, though he knew that there was no stopping the mixture of hurt, utter sadness and the pathetically overwhelming longing to have his normal life back.
If only. If only. Two words. Two simple words that could haunt a person for their entire life. 'If' was a powerful word on its own, but when coupled with 'only', the power of those words could turn people insane. The words rose in pitch and volume as Sherlock said them, firstly in whispers and then almost as some sort of strangled cry, turning into a demented mantra. His voice sounded weird. Distorted, deformed; the words swam round his head, twisting themselves into the previously untouched corners of his mind and oozing memories of home over his pristine mind palace.
His mind thought back to the Fall, as it had done so many times within the past year. If only he had made the most of his time back in London. A shameful stab of regret pierced his heart and Sherlock sat, with his head in his hands, wondering how long this waiting game would go on for.
Though his outward appearance was that of a calm, collected person, inside, Sherlock's mind was spinning and whizzing and reminding him of every little memory and thought that he had of home. He only hoped that John wasn't like this. He hoped that John had managed to go on with his life and hadn't turned into the conflicting mess of desolate wasteland and newly awakened wreck of emotions that Sherlock now found himself to be. He hoped that John had found someone new and was enjoying life with them.
Having said that, Sherlock also wished and hoped in his heart of hearts, that John was missing him and thought of him as much as Sherlock did. He hoped that somewhere, John had not moved on and was instead consumed with grief, holding out hope that Sherlock would one day re-appear and remind him of why he had lived, isolated, for so long. It was selfish to say that, and Sherlock knew it, but after opening up his Pandora's Box of feelings after so long, which had spewed out friendship and love and caring, was it completely implausible that greed and selfishness would come out of it too? Half the world believed he was a selfish glory hunter who concocted cases to boost his ego, and they had gotten it half right, he thought bitterly to himself. They were right about the selfish part. But the startling realisation that hit him in the face was that everyone is selfish in their own way, everyone has a greed for something, and everyone experiences human emotions. Even self proclaimed sociopaths like him.
Another flashback of the Fall. John's face, staring up at him, aghast. Sherlock's heart, thumping louder and louder with every word and every horrifyingly convincing lie he whispered into John's mind. John, stammering uselessly, whispering, pleading. Sherlock's mouth had gone dry and he had only the strength to utter one final word to John before the John Watson that he knew was gone and would be, inevitably, obviously, replaced with the broken shell of the soldier that he was, before he had met Sherlock.
Sherlock despondently turned his back to the night sky. As he did so, his coat swished round, and a small key tumbled out of a forgotten pocket. He picked it up, cradling it in his hands as though it were one of his precious experiments. It was the key to 221B Baker Street. Odd. He didn't remember ever carrying a key. That was John's responsibility.
He looked at it carefully and here and there saw a few scratches, a few corners where the colour of the metal had faded a little, mostly around the handle. He smelt it curiously. To anyone else, this would have been regarded weird, but to those familiar with the painstaking wistfulness of remembering something, teamed with the fact that smell was the most powerful factor in bringing back memories, it would be completely understandable. Of course, to Sherlock, it was simply a way of ascertaining where the key had come from and why it was with him.
He gingerly brought it to his nose, flinching slightly from the touch of the cold metal on his skin, and was at once flooded with the smell of metal. An underlying tone of soap, wool and custard creams made its way into his mind and Sherlock recoiled, flinching again, this time at the powerful scent that could only be described as John. So it wasn't just a key to the flat, it was John's key. Had Mycroft put it in Sherlock's clothes? Well, he had provided Sherlock with clothes, his phone and a few of his belongings, so it wasn't completely improbable. What did intrigue Sherlock, though, was why Mycroft had put it there. Had he done it as some sort of apology? A way to cure Sherlock's homesickness? Maybe he gave it so that Sherlock would have something of sentimental value. Sherlock snorted. Mycroft, capable of sentiment? He rolled his eyes.
He drew his mind away from Mycroft and instead focused on the key. The familiar scrapings and scratches and the smell, oh the smell, it all brought everything back to him.
The smell of Baker Street, warm with tea and summer sunshine, or a flickering fire, or Mrs Hudson's perfume with 'fruity floral tones' that always made Sherlock think of his own mother. All things, which, admittedly, he didn't pay all that much attention to normally, but since he seemed to be abandoning his sociopath state and letting himself feel emotions, he might as well go the whole way.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, because the memories inside his mind were clamouring to be seen and all of a sudden, it was just too much. They shouted louder and louder in his head, forcing themselves to the forefront of his mind and demanding to be seen and remembered, and felt. Emotions that he had buried away long, long ago, were reawakened and back with a vengeance, determined to make Sherlock feel them after lying dormant for so long.
It all became too much.
Sherlock let out a cry of frustration. His hands shook in confusion and anger. He threw the key forcefully onto the floor. It bounced with a sharp ping and ricocheted off the wall, coming to rest some feet away from where Sherlock stood.
He didn't want to remember anything. He didn't want to have to think of all the things he had been forced to abandon. This was why he abandoned feelings and emotions and caring. It was just easier to push that all away and withdraw himself from the pathetic human nature that sought love and care and affection. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to be reminded.
He didn't want to see anymore.
He didn't want to be without them. He wanted to be with John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Molly and even Anderson, who in all of his entirety was only what could be described as a bloody shambles. He didn't even mind. He just didn't want to be alone.
Sherlock sighed, a deep sigh that came from the furthest reaches of his lungs. It was all so confusing. On one hand he wanted to remember everything and think of all the good times so that he wouldn't be so forlorn and alone. But then with the memories and the good times came the haunting realisation that things weren't the same, and no matter how much he wanted them to be, they never would be the same. He shook his head, willing a solution to present itself, or at least for his mind to just be clear of all this confusion.
He sighed yet again, wondering to himself how many times he had sighed in frustration or confusion or even just plain resignation over the past few months. If ever there was a time that Sherlock had felt human, it was now. He drummed his hands on the sides of the bed he had found himself collapsed onto after throwing the key, but the smooth tapping of his fingers soon turned from a comfortable beat to something much more sinister. A laugh. A voice. A gunshot. And then silence.
Sherlock's heartbeat quickened. He was standing, once again, at the rooftop of St Bart's, his heart hammering in his chest. The roar of wind that seemed to have taken over his senses at the time of the Fall returned, stronger and louder than ever. He felt himself falling, with the exact same sickening feeling in his gut that only doubled the further he fell, and Sherlock was unable to scream. He was even rendered incapable of simple speech. He seemed to be in such excruciating pain that the boundary of screaming or shouting or indeed making any sort of noise had been passed, and Sherlock now found himself in a state where he was unable to even do the simplest of actions. He shook his head, over and over, desperately pawing at the fabric of the sofa, almost digging out chunks of fabric as he scratched harder and harder in an effort to stop the ache that had evolved from something emotional to a physical hurt, manifesting itself unto Sherlock in that exact moment. Who was he kidding? Wanting to feel human, so that he wouldn't feel alone? Better to be alone than go through this amount of pain. He gasped a shuddering breath and brought himself back to the present day, untangling himself from the broken web of chaotic incidences his life just seemed to be woven into.
How could he have gotten himself into such a mess? How could he have allowed things to have escalated to such an extent that his entire reputation had been tarnished, all traces of credibility destroyed? He felt water pricking at his eyes, but having already shed his tears, he pushed them back with more ease than he had earlier on in the night.
The lingering questions in his mind were not ready to leave just yet, though. He heard Mycroft's voice in his mind, shouting at him over the residue of some experiment ending up on some books of his. How could you be so stupid? And then, it's all your fault. Though the days of Mycroft chastising him for something or the other were over, Sherlock knew that this time, it was his fault.
It was his fault for being so cocky and arrogant; so demeaning to everyone. Of course, they wanted a reason to hate him and now that there was one, everyone had jumped on the 'Sherlock Holmes is a psychotic freak who makes things up' bandwagon, and there was no-one to protest his innocence. The only people who would be able to do that were John and Mrs Hudson, and the chances of the public believing a 'supposedly' geriatric, senile old woman who had allowed gun shots in her walls at all hours of the morning were very slim. The public believing John was even less likely. With the popular belief that he and John were romantically attached to each other in some way, any protesting of Sherlock's innocence on John's behalf would immediately be dismissed as avenging an old lover. Oh, how the public were fickle. They loved him one day and despised him the next. Fickle fools.
That deerstalker hat hadn't done him any favours, though it was mentioned quite a few times by quite a few people that it was very becoming on him. If it was that good at turning the public's opinion of him, he would be at home right now- he'd only have to slip on the hat and everyone would love him again. Pft. If only life was that easy, he thought to himself.
So, no, the hat had not done him any favours. Neither had Donovan. Sherlock could almost hear her spiteful refrain of 'freak' as though she was sat in front of him in that very moment. Of course. She wanted to believe he wasn't as brilliant as he made out. That was the problem with people these days- they just didn't want anyone but themselves to succeed. He saw it all the time- people who had to act happy for their spouses who had gotten a better job than them, in the world of children, between their friends and their siblings. He himself had experienced it.
Sherlock gazed down at the floor, wondering when and how, and most importantly, why life had decided to throw its convoluted emotions into the structure of his comfortable life. He noted, with a bittersweet tone, that at the time, when the newly awakened emotions such as caring and affection and love had replaced or at least toned down his usual indifference and blind arrogance, he had no reason to hate the sentiments and he in no way despised life for throwing them at him. It was only now, when things had gone wrong, and darker, more powerful emotions started to attack his mind, that he wished for it all to be taken back.
If only he had appreciated it more when life was simple and consisted of tea with Mrs Hudson and stealing ashtrays for John and oh-so-easily annoying Mycroft. The painful stab of regret was back, as were the ever present words that hung in the air above Sherlock's head as some sort of cloud raining on his (once) great parade. If only.
There were so many things he hadn't said to John, and maybe now, never would. The window of opportunity was long gone, and it didn't seem to be opening for Sherlock anytime soon. If only he had managed to find the words to say to John. But what would he have said? What could he have said?
An apology wouldn't have been enough. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did indeed feel guilt and some sort of remorse- that had been proven by the Christmas incident with Molly. But at the same time, Sherlock wasn't sorry. He knew he had impacted John's life in a positive way to some sort of extent- had he really been that terrible a person, John would have left him a long time ago.
Yet he still owed John an apology, not for having to endure him as a flatmate, or for the countless times his life was put in danger, or even for the incessant shooting at the wall. No, he owed John an apology for the torture that he must have gone through over the past year. For while Sherlock was traversing the globe and taking down Moriarty's web, going to new places that held no memories (and thus no pain), John was living half alive in the midst of London surrounded by a plethora of recollections, little memoirs that would inevitably have sent sharp stabs of pain into his heart like fragments of glass. Sherlock knew this because of his own experiences on the rare, but no less painful, instances where he saw something that reminded him of John.
Would he have said that he loved him? Sherlock was not one for love- he firmly believed that it was a series of chemicals and hormones, purely scientific. And yet, after John had come into his life, a whole new world of possibilities had opened up. Sherlock's tempered heart, so brittle in nature, and strengthened by the ruthless extremes of life and humankind, had been blown apart by John's warmth and the softness of his heart that had been maintained in spite of being covered in tiny, hardened battle scars. The red warmth that radiated from John's heart, so very different from the usual red of anger that Sherlock was used to, had melted his heart instead of reinforcing its solidity, and it was this that had left Sherlock so exposed and vulnerable on that lamentable day.
And then came the question of whether Sherlock loved John or was in love with him. It had taken Sherlock a long time to come to the realisation that he was capable of loving, and when he was presented with the notion, standing on top of the grey building, his world void of colour, slowly dragging him away from those halcyon days, he had had no idea what to make of it. The line between his feelings had been hazy and unclear, blurred by a fog of confusion and complexity that Sherlock did still not quite fully understand, even to this day. However, what he did know now, in hindsight, was that in the end, it didn't even matter. Whether Sherlock loved John or was in love with him wasn't important. What was important was the fact that he hadn't said it. He hadn't found the words to say it at the time, and even now, after mulling over it for almost a year, he still hadn't found the words to say. If only he had.
Sherlock reached for the light, and with a quick snap, flicked it on. He needed to get away from this darkness, and the first step was remembering to switch on the light. Sherlock had underestimated the power of the light though, and the harsh rays that were projected into those greyish blue orbs (more commonly known as his eyes) caused Sherlock to shrink back and recoil from the blinding flash. He winced in pain and sharply inhaled as he realised that subjecting himself to such a bright light was likely to give him a headache. He scoffed. Who was he kidding? He had a headache anyway from all the trips down memory lane he had been taking over the last few hours. He blinked rapidly, looking quite like a lanky deer very much caught in the headlights, and as his eyes flashed between pure darkness and blurs of colour, he found himself taken in once again by the confinement of his mind.
The day of the Fall, of course. What else would it have been? The memories of that day just kept playing in his head like a broken record and no matter what he did to try and escape it, it always came back to him, glaring at him, a constant reminder in the back of his head hat would never be forgotten.
He stood at the top of the building for what, unusually, seemed to be the final time. Had his mind finally gotten enough of the flashbacks and the constant re-windings and replaying? The wind whipped around him so forcefully he could have almost felt it hit him right there, sitting in the unfamiliar flat in which he had stayed up all night. Sherlock looked down upon the street and an overwhelming wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him, leaving him drenched in a nervous sweat. The street looked so tiny, the people resembling ants.
He remembered a time when people were giants, each new place a thrilling new scene, in which there were countless things to be deduced. When he had first left home and come to London, the unfamiliar streets had posed a new challenge and a new danger, all of which he loved.
Sherlock looked down now, in his dream world, at the familiar curve of the crumbling bricks on the side of the street, and the many faces which had become second nature to him after seeing them everyday going about their usual jobs. It didn't even matter that there weren't new things to say about them the minute he saw them anymore. (They were so terrifyingly human anyway; there wouldn't even be any new things to say.) The fact that he was leaving them was what scared him. The excitement of going to new places was hampered by the fact that he did not have John with him. Ironically, it was quite similar to his childhood, where he found no interest in going to places without Mycroft.
With a sound that was more sad than derisive, he thought abut how he and Mycroft had drifted apart, worlds apart from how they had been- playing games and basking lazily on the lawn, both united in their detachment from their father and the rest of the world, who thought them too different to be worth of any inclusion. But then Mycroft had learnt how to act. He mastered the art of sticking to social conventions and sticking to the norm. He climbed further up the hierarchy, and left Sherlock to make a name for himself. Mycroft forgot about childhood innocence and unity, and the promise of standing together in defiance, with their backs to the world. He forgot Sherlock whilst on his way to the top, and by the time he remembered Sherlock, half his life had whittled away, along with Sherlock's humanity, dreams and any hope of reconciliation.
Kicking himself internally for allowing his memories to take over his mind, Sherlock withdrew sharply from the thoughts of Mycroft, but as he did that, his thoughts fell upon John and thus, Sherlock was whirled back into the pre-Reichenbach world, this time his thoughts solely fixed on John.
Standing closer to the edge of St Barts now than he had ever been in any of his previous flashbacks, Sherlock saw a figure out of the corner of his eye, and he looked away quickly. He couldn't allow his memories of John to manifest themselves anymore than they already had done. Looking out over the city and taking in all the little houses and building and alleyways and patches of green, his eye was drawn to a certain building in particular, and he could almost feel himself walking up the stairs to his flat. His mind allowed itself to be diverted from the thoughts of the Fall as he explored his flat through a tiny window in his mind, and a small smile inadvertedly formed on Sherlock's face as he remembered John complaining about his clothes being strewn everywhere and remnants of his experiments being spattered all over the tabletop.
Having granted Sherlock a moment of happiness, his mind dragged him back to the roof of St Barts, where he was almost teetering on the edge of the building. Taking one last, final look at the London he called home, Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself fall into the emptiness of his mind.
Shaking his head, Sherlock opened his eyes, forcefully dragging himself out of the dream world he had been drowning in for the past five minutes. He chastised himself for letting his memories take over his mind and as he let out a bitter laugh, realised that this never ending cycle really would never end until he saw John again, went to London again, and went back the life that he used to have, once again. Fishing a phone out of his pocket, Sherlock dialled a number. If he couldn't see John again, this would be the next best thing.
The sharp ring of the phone echoed through the silent flat, and Sherlock flexed and unflexed the fingers of his left hand as the right hand trembled slightly. The phone seemed to ring for ever, and just when he seemed to give up hope, an oh-so familiar voice wearily answered 'Hello?'
Sherlock froze.
It was though the very earth had simply upped sticks and stopped turning at the sound of John Watson's voice. Sherlock desperately tried to say something anything, his brain barely registering the repeated hello's that John kept saying into the phone, and it was only when he heard a resigned, somewhat angry sigh and a simple click of the phone that Sherlock realised he had done it yet again. The solitary tear that rolled down Sherlock's cheek showed only too clearly how Sherlock had yet again failed to find the words to say, and because of that, John was, in every sense of the word, gone.
-Fin-