Hello people of fanfiction, I'm back again. I'm getting very bad with my updates and what not but I'm a busy girl (Plus I'm still on a mini writer's block). However I am back and I'm actually writing for a new fandom. The BBC series of Sherlock that is. Watched the whole thing and God is it addicting. Love it to pieces. Anyway, this oneshot is based of the last episode of series 2, 'The Reichenbach Falls' (Spelt correctly I hope), which was just amazing and reduced me to tears. Spoilers here but no other warnings really. This is slightly AU I suppose and may be slightly OOC too but oh well, can't be perfect. Sorry if any details are slightly wrong also. But besides that, please enjoy and reviews are welcome. ;)
Sherlock sat cross legged in the empty room, his long, thin legs curved perfectly into a sitting position.
His sharp eyes were closed shut, staring instead at the inner eye lids which shielded them from the hollow world. His posture was held with a still flawlessness. You would think he was meditating. But no, that wasn't what Sherlock would do. No. He was instead letting his mechanical working mind wander, deep into it's wounded core. His thoughts drifting around, messed up like the situation he was in.
What a cruel world this planet could be. What a cruel God there was, to create such an extraordinary sociopath that people mocked and doubted. Yet thanked when the job was done. Cruel indeed.
Somehow though, Sherlock had drawn people to him. Not in the negative, antagonizing way. People that valued his opinion, wanted to know what he had to say, complimented his talent. People that, dare he say it actually care about him. Well, cared. He couldn't really tell now. Ok, that was a lie. But he really tried not to care back. Because caring only made it worse. Caring reminded him of how that single, vulnerable feeling had gotten him to where he is now.
Sitting cross legged in the empty room. That was a lie too. The room was actually nicely decorated, the required furniture laid out in an easy to recognise design. So the room wasn't exactly empty. The atmosphere was. It held no meaning, no memories. Just a bucket load of emptiness. And the longer Sherlock sat there, the emptier his entire soul began to feel.
His plan hadn't been the brightest ever thought up. Oh the irony in that statement. Nothing was bright now.
Especially the cemetery. The stone gray clouds always lingered over the deathly grounds, holding but refusing to drop the rain. Sherlock knew this because he had been there everyday. Every single day. It was always at the same time, standing in the same place, watching the exact same spot. Hidden from view. He didn't go to visit his own tombstone, he wasn't that egotistical.
No.
He was waiting for someone to show up. And he did. Every single day. It was always at the same time, standing in the same place, watching the exact same spot. For one man just simply couldn't forget the death of his best friend. Wouldn't forget. Didn't believe it. Shouldn't understand it. And he didn't. Sherlock knew John Watson very well, better than anyone he had ever known. Though he wouldn't admit that. So he knew that Dr Watson was deeply confused, trying to figure out why Sherlock Holmes had plunged from a building rooftop to the harsh pavement below. Allowing Dr Watson to witness his 'death'.
That had been the hardest part for the great detective, basically forcing John to watch him jump. It was beyond heartless, yet that's how it had left Dr Watson feeling. Heartless. Cause Sherlock had ripped his heart away the second he'd hung up and left his feet. That's why John visited his best friend's grave everyday.
His life had devalued in meaning. He was lonely, angry and just plain sad. You could exaggerate on it more. Like in a book. Say that he had already smashed Sherlock's experiment bottles onto the flour of 221B Baker Street. That one time he had returned. Say that he had cried himself to sleep more than once while buried in Sherlock's coat. Say that he had shot bullets, like Sherlock had done before whenever he was bored, into the walls. All because he was upset, broken up inside, devastated. But no. Sad is powerful on it's on too. Without the cover up. That's all John Watson was.
He was sad.
So he went to the isolated cemetery and talked to Sherlock. Not even knowing that he was only metres away from the actual man himself. His conversations with the unique man's spirit had grown rather worse than initially. At first, Sherlock had noted to himself, John had seemed to be accepting that he would never see his friend again. At first. That changed over time though. With time, it was actually becoming quite the opposite. There were days when Sherlock didn't want to look at Watson because he felt he couldn't.
Today, the Dr had appeared with a similar description from the day before. He was wearing thin, a light stubble gracing his face and his normal leathered jacket was perched on his slim body. But what Sherlock noticed the most had sent a pang through his heart. Had physically caused him to flinch. For Dr Watson had added a new feature to his appearance. Placed loosely around his neck yet it held with a sort of compliance.
Dark navy, seemingly faded due to it's owner's disappearance. A light, comforting scarf, one which Sherlock had carried around with him for years.
Had worn every time his body had met the outside world, despite the weather conditions. One which now graced John's skin, curled delicately around the curves of his neck. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at the discovery. Why was he wearing it now, today? There had to be a particular reason. John walked with his usual pace but speeded up ever so slightly as Sherlock's tombstone came into view. An action that only the brilliant detective himself would notice.
Sherlock had stayed hidden carefully behind the tree. His slender, lanky body actually worked for this camouflage. The tree was perfectly placed. Not too close but not too far. Sherlock's excellent hearing and the surrounding silence meant he could perceive John's private words. Today was no different. John eventually reached the slab of stone sticking in the ground. Sherlock watched him carefully. There was something different today. Apart from the scarf. Watson's movement was more rigid, suggesting that great tension was withheld in his mind and body.
From his view, Sherlock saw John's face. It held no emotion, not even sadness. Except his eyes. They were fiery. Downcast. They held no purpose. Sherlock's eyebrow quirked, what had caused this severe change. John stood still, his feet touching the edge of the mound of dirt which was pressing down on the coffin. He stood just as he was for several minutes, the slight breeze causing the end of his scarf to waft in the air.
His scarf.
When had that happened? Sherlock began to think that maybe he wouldn't say anything today, just stand there and cast his eyes down at the polished monument. But that wasn't John Watson these days. Not at all. A shaky sigh had halted Sherlock's thoughts completely and he glued his eyes to John's body, waiting, listening for what would happen next.
"It's quite chilly today. The weatherman says that a cold front will be coming in this week so I guess that explains it", John started slowly, his voice noticeably on edge.
This wasn't John Watson, something was definitely wrong here. John looked up for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to continue. He laughed briefly but the sound was full of pain. "I found something of yours while I was unpacking one of the boxes in my new flat".
Sherlock visibly frowned at hearing this additional news.
John subconsciously wrapped his fingers around the tail ends of the scarf, holding them closely to his chest. "You, eh, well they gave this back to me after you eh, well you know", John whispered, "I guess I threw it into my stuff while I was packing. You were always very fond of it. In fact, you were the only man I knew who wore a scarf everyday regardless of the weather".
There it was again. A hesitant smile. Tentative movement. And the slightest tightening of his grasp around the woven material.
"I thought it shouldn't go to waste you know, such a nice scarf", John continued, a tear escaping from the corner of his eye, slipping down his cheek, trailing along his jaw line. Sherlock flinched again. This was something he couldn't get used to. John crying. Over him.
Because of him.
"Then I realised that I probably should have buried you with it on. It would keep you warmer", John's breathing hitched suddenly and he breathed out deeply to control himself.
His shoulders were shaking at this point, not much but enough to tell Sherlock that he wasn't coping. Isn't. Not even a little. John moved his hands further up the woolly garment and gently unwrapped it from his neck. He held it in front of him with trembling hands and walked forward three steps, his feet sinking in the moist ground. He fell to his knees then and carefully laid the scarf over Sherlock's tombstone, fixing it so that it laid balanced over the crown of the stone. He then placed one shaking hand on his mouth and chin, the other went to rest on the side of the headstone.
He stared at his tribute for a few moments, his eyes only interested in the scarf and the words Sherlock Holmes. Another tear leaked out of his blurry eyes, which now only read Sherlock Holmes as saying gone. Cause that's what he is.
Gone.
"So I'm giving it back to you Sherlock. It only seems right. I just thought, well, I thought you'd need it more than me", John mumbled before breaking down into tears. Tears that are fresh and cleanly coated with pain and anguish. He then suddenly hugged the tombstone, smashed his cheek against the gold lettering, sobbed loudly into the solid frame.
Sherlock had stayed perfectly still. But his eyes had moved by themselves. He'd put one of his hands on his cheek and pulled it away to see moisture on his fingers. He was crying. The great Sherlock Holmes was crying, because he was watching his best friend slowly destroying himself and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it. Not then, not now, not tomorrow, never. Cause if he ever did reveal himself, he'd be putting their lives in danger. Again. The assassin's are still here, still in London. But where? And who are they? Sherlock could not yet know. Isn't able too.
The only man who knew the answers was Moriarty. But he blew himself away. Spiteful man that he had been. Just like Sherlock. True in many ways but not in all. Because Sherlock had one thing, one thing that Jim Moriarty didn't possess. They both knew it.
He had a heart. And that was Sherlock's weakness.
That single muscle, beating 60-85 times a minute. That single muscle which had pounded in Sherlock's chest earlier that day. Murdering his insides. All because the one man that truly manipulates it had been clutching the headstone, his eyes puddles on his dripping face, his body a quaking mess on the haunted grounds. And now as he sat cross legged in the empty room, his heart pounded again. Hard and deep. Reminding him of the pain from his previous trip to the cemetery. The one he had just returned from.
It was late now, in the early evenings. John had eventually recovered from his breakdown, his sobs turning into shaky sighs and small whimpers. He had stayed on the grave's groundings, talking to Sherlock quietly. His breakdown. That hadn't ever happened before today. Sherlock had never imagined he would have to witness John react like this. Never. Now it was something that he only prayed he would never have to watch again. But he realised as he sat in the empty room that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from watching him if it did.
Sherlock, a brilliant man in mind and spirit, who could tell you who your killer is with little to no evidence, who could state your entire past and present life with the click of his fingers, could not predict the future. So he would never know if John would ever have an episode like this again. To be quite honest, he didn't want to know. He would still go to the cemetery regardless and watch Dr Watson for as long as he stayed.
Why you may ask would he put himself through that sort of agony. Witnessing his best friend fall further each day. Allow himself to cry over something that could have been prevented. It was the only way he could feel. The only way he could allow these sensations, no matter how painful, to course though his entire body and remind him that he's still human, that he's still alive.
Call it sad, pathetic, but he needed to feel. Or he would lose it too.
The most depressing, most excruciating place on this 'fine' earth was the single location that let his soul free. It wasn't the place itself that did it, it was John Watson. And as much as he wanted to hug the life out of him, tell him that everything was okay, whisper sweet nothings in his ear to comfort him, he couldn't. All he could do was cry with him. The living connection. One which Sherlock needed. One which he achieved by visiting the graveyard each day. Today had been too much though. It had overwhelmed Sherlock. Drained him of any structure. Quite literally had broken him. Sherlock had went home that evening exhausted, but his eyes having dried. He went inside the dingy flat, briefly stood still in the void sitting room and moved to the wooden table.
And Sherlock sat cross legged in the empty room, his long, thin legs curved perfectly into a sitting position. He made no sound.
Just let the tears that fell next slide silently down his cheeks.
And there you have it my fellow writers and readers. I tried to make this deep and meaningful, don't how well I succeeded though. It's not how I normally write stories either and I just let my fingers go with this one. Not sure how great the ending was either but I really wanted to post this, so you can be the judge of that. Thanks and please review if you have even half a minute. :)