New project from me, that will be added to sporadically. Basically a collection of completely unrelated, song-inspired drabbles, all one-shots (if I feel like doing a multi-chapter thing, I'll probably do it as a brand new fic). Lyrics won't be used, but the chapter names will be the song that has inspired each chapter, should you wish to check out the lyrics (or listen to the song while reading, if that works for you). I would imagine that the vast majority will be Johnlock, as that is what I do, but there might be others in here too. All sorts of genres - humour, drama, romance will obviously feature, and angst. Some will be pre-slash, some established relationships, some unrequited love. Some might not have any sort of romance about them at all. Some will be third person, some will be first. I might attempt a second person POV at some point. Absolutely willing to take prompts/song recommendations, please let me know in reviews or in private messages. I will always make clear what the main themes of each chapter are, in case you wish to avoid certain types/pairings etc. Hope you enjoy!


CHAPTER ONE

My Immortal ~ Evanescence

Pairing: Unrequited Johnlock

Rating: T for very slight (and incorrect) reference to drug-taking

Genre: Angsty


He closes his eyes tightly, shutting everything and everyone out, if only temporarily. With his eyes closed, he can focus on his thoughts, on not allowing himself to react. This is normally what happens, anyway. Normally he has enough control.

But not tonight. Tonight, the emotion of the evening has filled his insides to the point where he feels like he can hardly breathe. He doesn't know why he agreed to any of this – from just attending the wedding, as a guest, to being persuaded into having one of the most important parts of the whole ceremony. The Best Man. The Best Friend.

Friend.

The word hurts him more than it should. He should feel grateful, he knows this. He should be pleased to be allowed into his life, even in this small way. To be granted the right to be a part of him, if only platonic. But it is not enough.

In a way, he wishes it were all... or nothing.

The music is deafening, but still he can hear his heart breaking, as he pushes his way through the strength of the crowd, past the happy couple. Air. He needs air, so badly he feels his lungs might burst if he doesn't manage to break through this swarm of people and out into the night time lull within the next three seconds...

He makes it. He realises he has his coat. He has no intention of returning.


Her sympathy is not wanted. It makes him feel pathetic. Weak. Childish.

"Give it time," she says patronisingly. "You'll meet someone else."

For a woman who has supposedly seen it all, she does come out with some utter rubbish sometimes.

He lies on the sofa, the sense of abandonment consuming him like a savage beast, the feeling of loneliness sweeping through him like a chilling tempest. It's been weeks. Three to be exact. And he knows that he will see him again, sometime soon, most probably. And that's what hurts the most. That's when it'll become apparent, that he will no longer be able to hide from the fact that everything has changed.

He closes his eyes and remembers.


The screams echoed through the hallway. He grabbed his violin, the only source of comfort he could think of, and practically raced up the stairs, two at a time. He could no longer ignore it. He had to try something.

He was lying in his bed, but he was sobbing. Tears streamed down his face from his closed lids, his face, illuminated in the moonlight streaming through his window, was streaked with pain and terror. Violin temporarily forgotten, he perched on the edge of the bed, softly wiping the tears away with his thumb. He moved into the touch, murmuring. He sounded so pained, so wretched.

He picked up the violin and, still perched precariously on the edge of his bed, not wanting to disturb him, he played. He couldn't remember what it was – a lullaby of some description – but the terror faded, the pain ebbed away, the breaths were calmer as he continued to stroke the bow across the tight strings, quietly playing the nightmares away.

After half an hour of gentle music, he came to a natural finish, carefully removing the instrument from his shoulder. He allowed himself one small squeeze of the hand that lay, resting, on top of the covers, before silently leaving the room.


The kitchen is empty without his constant, calming presence, never too far from his beloved kettle. The living room, cold without his blogger, sat with his laptop, offering up the odd comment, sharing a joke or two. The house seems different without the light of his eyes shining in unabashed excitement at a new case, without his ridiculous jumpers, without his smile.

It is the same as when it was before he came into his life, he reminds himself. He lived this way for many years before the soldier limped into Flat 221B and turned his world on its head.

But he was blind before, blind to the possibility of what could be. Blind to emotion, to feelings, to love.

Now he knows what he's missing, what he needs so badly in his life to make him whole, to make him happy. And it kills him that he knows he can never have it.

You did this to yourself, he tells himself. If you hadn't left him, he wouldn't have found her.

Berating himself, unsurprisingly, does not work. It only exacerbates the pain, makes it eat away at his very soul.

He sleeps even less, and when he does manage to fall into a semblance of sleep, all he sees is him. He haunts his dreams, he invades his mind palace. He walks the halls of the imagined building, silently. He's seeped into every nugget of his existence. He can't escape him.

When they eventually meet, he can't bear it. His throat dries up, and no words are forthcoming. He is met with a bemused look, a question – "are you ill? Let me check you over, I am a doctor" – that he does not have the wherewithal to dodge. He is led blindly to his own sofa. His hand touches his forehead, gently, a concerned look on his face. He feels how flushed, how clammy he is. He knows it is an unusual state for him to be in. Unless –

"You're not using again, are you? Sherlock!"

He denies it immediately, and can tell he's believed. The inspection continues, he's prescribed bed rest. He doesn't bother to tell him that that won't help, that sleep only serves to make him suffer more. He weakly agrees, nodding along, noting the worry in his face and feeling briefly touched that he cares. Then, once again, he wishes he were alone. All alone, as he was before. He wishes he'd never known this feeling.

You'll meet someone else, she had said.

No. No one will ever compare. No one will ever do.

John Watson has all of him. Heart, feeble that it is, and soul, as broken as it could be. He just doesn't know it. And never will.