Warnings for blood, references to suicide.
Sherlock and John aren't mine; I'm just borrowing them.
The hill is wide and white, the whiteness of tundras, endless and sparkling. At the top of this snowy plateau is a barren tree, its branches spreading through the sky like ebony veins. At the bottom stands John, clad in khaki cashmere and blue denim, squinting against the frosted light. The small of his back is naked, his body feeling only the sweetness of the fresh air, not the bitter pain of it. Wind slips across his skin, ringing with dulcimers and crystal, and silver burns through the sky, matching the new strands of it in his hair. He has not been golden for a long time, the last bits of blonde disappearing over the past few months...Since.
A long scar mars the smooth, white slope before him: a rough line of footsteps trampled into the snow. The tracks are of a man: a single pair of barefoot feet, the marks of long bones and gangly, prehensile toes leaving little indents where warm flesh once lay, tidal pools of body-melted water. With his short, slow, slightly limping steps, he follows the uphill path, the cool breeze filling his lungs with fresh mint and skylight.
The snow is up to his calves, but he does not walk in the other man's path to gain better traction, as he normally would. He feels instead the urge to walk beside it, to follow these long, strong strides, these footsteps accompanied by small, sweeping marks, like the swishing drape of heavy fabric. The sensation of walking beside anyone, striding with purpose, even beside someone long gone, still sends a warm thrill through his body.
As he walks, he notices drops of blood staining the snow a sparkling garnet, blooming like rare poppies. He quickens his pace, following the twin trails of blood and feet, his heart pounding, his fingers ready to hurt or to heal. The tracks grow more unsteady as they move up the hill, blurring on top of one another until the footsteps are bloody and ragged. But when John reaches the top of the hill, the trails suddenly disappear, just at the base of the dark tree. Breathing heavily, John frowns, spins around, scanning the sky and snow for signs of life.
Under the snow, just past the edge of the bloody footprints, come the tiny sounds of chirruping, snuffling. John kneels down, slush seeping into his jeans, and begins to dig, barehanded, his skin turning pink with cold. As he digs, he sees flashes of a brighter red; hears excited chirps, high and metallic. He pulls the last of the snow away to find a cardinal: its flaming scarlet body twitching, sharp orange beak ready to strike. Its eyes and beak are rimmed in kohl, its crest tall and proud, its wings and tail-feathers sheened with slate and cornflower. Around the animal are more scattered, glinting pools of red, some of the stains in the shapes of handprints.
"Well, hello there," John says, smiling, brushing errant flakes off the bird's feathers. "Where did you come from?" Carefully, John lifts it from its cold, bloody nest, holding it in his hands. As John cradles the bird, it is unnaturally calm, not screaming at or recoiling from the touch of a strange creature. The cardinal's heart thrums against its ribcage, the beat vibrating through John's fingers. The bird shivers from the cold, its feathers fluffed and puffy, so John nestles it against his own heart, letting it absorb some of his own warmth. "You're all right," he says, making small shushing noises. "I've got you. I won't let anyone hurt you."
You found me. I knew you would find me. The cardinal's song, quick and relieved, dances through the air, the sound rippling through John's body in a strange, deep baritone. There was no one else to care for me. It's been so lonely here.
"It's all right. I'm here. You're not alone anymore," John says soothingly. John strokes the bird's head, straightening its mussed feathers with his fingers. "How long have you been here?"
Too long. The bird's voice is a plaintive whistle, long notes that sound like falling. Too long for me to go without company. It rustles its feathers in John's gentle grip. He left me for you. He knew you would keep me safe until he returned. He said that I was too soft for me to come along. Too fragile. I was red enough already, he said, I didn't need more blood on my coat. He left me here so I would not be hurt.
John frowns. "Who is he? Who left you here?"
The cardinal cocks its head, peering intently into John's eyes. Its own eyes are not the usual shiny black, but the color of frost on window panes, of ice on the Thames, of glasz and silver and piercing insight. The one who left you. The dark one, with the light in his skin and his eyes and the shimmering darkness in his head. The one you love.
John's body stills in the frozen air, his heart seizing in his chest. "Sherlock...he's alive?" he whispers.
Yes, the bird sings, its call metallic with pain. He plucked me from his chest and laid me here long ago.
John breathes in sharp gusts, white plumes of warmth blooming in the air, his heart cracking open as questions tumble from his mouth: "Where is he? Why did he leave? Is he coming back?"
He said he would be gone for a long time. The cardinal's gaze shifts from John's close body to the distant horizon. Many miles of flying, to fight, to feed, to protect. There was danger in his song, blood and bones and broken wings. He said he would return as soon as he could, but he didn't know if he would ever come back.
Tears glisten in John's eyes, slip down his cheeks in half-frozen streams. He's alive, he's alive, he dazedly thinks. It has been months since Sherlock's death, since he has felt Sherlock's breath on his skin, his voice in his ears, his presence pouring over him like sweet water. The memory of it ripples through him, making him tremble, not with cold.
The bird nuzzles its head into John's face, and wipes his tears away with its feathers, staining the side of its head dark crimson with the wetness. He knew...you would need someone else, it says, voice dark with yearning. Something of him. He left me here...so you would not be lonely.
John gasps again, his breath catching in his throat, and he sobs out Sherlock's name, cradling the tiny, precious creature to his chest. As he holds the bird against him, he is enveloped, inside and out, in sudden warmth: from the cardinal, red heat flowing through feathers and skin; from the wintry sky, beaming down fresh, golden light; from his memories, Sherlock's hands and Sherlock's voice caressing him, Sherlock's shining, smiling face, no longer dappled with blood, but with starlight. He's alive, John thinks, his soul a warm, bubbling spring in this frozen vacuum, he's alone and wandering and lost, but he's alive.
The snow continues to fall in a gentle mist, flakes dancing through the air, turning the sky, the tree, their bodies to sparkling silver. Together, they sit for a long time, man and bird, still and silent, in the swirling snow. Will you stay with me? the cardinal finally asks, its chirruping low and tentative. I can't leave—his blood is here, and I am bound to him. Would you wait with me, until he returns?
John holds the dark bird in his hands, touches the wetness on its head, then draws his finger into his mouth, tasting the salt of his own tears and an underlying sweetness that was not there before. He strokes its downy chest, cradling this small, breathing miracle in his hands, this vibrating creation of color and flight, this bright spangle of a thing that once beat its wings, proud and strong, inside Sherlock's chest. Sherlock had entrusted this soft, scarlet gift to him, and his hands tremble with its fragility. "I'll take care of you," John says, gently. "I don't have anyone else to care for, besides me. I won't let anyone hurt you. Promise." His smile is as dazzling as full sun on fresh snow. "We'll wait for him together."
Steadying the bird in one hand, John clears away the last of the drifts around his body, leaving a crescent of green ground around him. Carefully, he lies down under the tree, curled in the fetal position, the cardinal wrapped in his arms. Their quiet breaths intermingle, smooth feathers against supple skin. The small bundle of red tucks its head under its wing, its tiny heart beating like a pulsing star, John's heart beating in counterpoint, slow and steady, until they both fall asleep.
When John opens his eyes, it is to a new, pink dawn blooming over London, draped in its first snow of the year, fallen silently overnight. The rosy, cool light streams through the frosted window, over the valleys of snow piled across the glass panes. A trickle of wintry air slips in though the cracked window, kissing his skin with freshness. He is curled on his side in his single bed, the sheets still smoothly wrapped around his body for the first time in months. His eyes are not gummy and heavy, as they have been other mornings, when he spent his nights crying on the ghostly, bloodied pavement in front of Bart's; nor do his arms ache from the phantom action of reaching, continuously, to catch a swiftly falling body. He is filled with a solid, cleansing rest, as deep as the newly fallen snow.
As John stirs, he feels something wispy and soft in his hands, still curled to his chest from sleep. He opens his palms to look at it, blinking in sleepy confusion, then freezes, stops breathing altogether: it is a single, blood-red feather, downy edges fluttering in the air. As he stares at the bright bloom of color, his soul, still stained with grimy, gritty grief, suddenly shimmers with pure snow and warm blood and silver skies. In the silent, snowy distance, a bird begins to sing, golden, honey-sweet, and his heart grows wide in wonder.
AN: Thanks to Mirith Griffin for her beta work, general life encouragement, and the word "cleansing," to Cellar Door for the prompt that inspired this story, and to Aderyn for the contemplation of birds. The title is taken from The Civil Wars' "Tracks in the Snow," which is the soundtrack and another inspiration for this piece.