A/N: Hiya to all! So, yeah, it's been awhile. Honestly, I kept going back to my fics and just not being happy with them… So I've trashed two, if I get really bored I might restart them. So instead here's one of the saddest fics I've ever written :).
So this is a songfic that one of my close friends requested, based off of the song Say Something by A Great Big World. I highly recommend listening to it before and/or while you read the fic, it will just be more meaningful that way.
Disclaimer: All of the italicized words in between the brackets are lyrics of the song. All of those belong to A Great Big World and are not mine. All credit goes to them!
Beware of your feels, don't read without a steady supply of chocolate, and happy reading :)!
Say Something
John stood, staring, eyes blank and heart heavy. He didn't know how many times he had visited the grave, he wasn't sure he wanted to. The pain grew every time he saw the headstone, but he always returned; maybe in the hopes that Sherlock would be there, to tell him he wasn't dead.
Because he wasn't. John knew, or he thought he did. He was beginning to lose hope.
[Say something, I'm giving up on you]
His visits were becoming less frequent. His therapist insisted that he was still too attached, and the trips weren't helping. But John wanted to be attached. Sherlock had become his entire life, and he wasn't sure he could cope if he turned out to really be gone.
He would do anything for Sherlock; even visit his grave repeatedly if that was what it took for the detective to come out of hiding.
[I'll be the one if you want me to]
The minutes passed, and John gave up.
'Maybe next time…' He thought as he turned his back to the wind and hurried out of the graveyard.
Baker Street was the same as the day Sherlock left it for the last time. John hadn't been able to bring himself to move any of his belongings. He couldn't leave either.
The flat still reminded him of Sherlock. Any reminder was enough.
[Anywhere I would have followed you}
John sank heavily into his armchair, staring at the couch where the genius had lain so many times before, solving case after case, mystery after mystery.
John could still hear him think.
Almost.
[Say something, I'm giving up on you]
He had lost connection with most of the outside world, though he still clicked on the telly from time to time; mostly to keep out the deafening silence that haunted 221 B.
It was odd to see the world continue to spin and people continue to live when John felt that everything had been flipped and shaken and beaten until he could no longer operate.
[And I am feeling so small, It was over my head]
Some days John didn't even get out of bed. Other days he was able to make it to the living room. No matter where he was, he always thought of Sherlock.
His hair, his eyes, his walk.
His brain, his mouth, his heart.
John thought of that massive intellect and wondered how he was lucky enough to witness it in action.
[I know nothing at all]
His limp was back; worse than it was before. If John even hoped to move (which he didn't much anyway) he needed his cane.
He rarely used it. Mostly it accompanied him to the grave. A steady friend to lean on.
It wasn't enough.
[And I will stumble and fall]
Every now and then Sherlock was mentioned in the paper or on the telly. Usually references to the cases he had solved. It made John's heart beat double its usual pace every time.
He would record the news and crawl over to the set and re-watch the bits where the detective was mentioned. Cringing each time he was mentioned in the past tense.
[I'm still learning to love, Just starting to crawl]
He had taken to sleeping in Sherlock's bed early on. Breathing in his scent and hoping beyond hope that it would not fade.
It would.
He would imagine the tall man in bed with him, holding him, comforting him.
Waking up alone was the hardest part of John's day.
[Say something, I'm giving up on you]
Nightmare.
The same one every night. Sherlock, on the edge of St. Barts, hand stretched towards John, pain soaking his words. John fighting to reach him, but falling and failing every time.
His own thrashing would eventually wake him, in a cold sweat, tears on his cheeks.
He began sleeping less and less.
[I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you]
John had been unable to go back to that hospital after the incident. The scene already haunted him at night; he didn't need to see it during the day.
[Anywhere I would have followed you]
He cried.
He cried all the time. More than he had ever cried in his life.
John would station himself on the couch or the bed and sob for hours on end until exhaustion hit and he passed out, only to be awakened by watching him die in his mind.
[Say something, I'm giving up on you]
John didn't have much left. Without work he decided to sell off most of his things to pay rent and buy what little he ate.
Mrs. Hudson had begun to clean out some of Sherlock's belongings, leaving the flat somewhat bare.
All John had left were the images and his own memories of Sherlock. The broken man had long since accepted love for the man he had not lost hope on.
Though his hope was dwindling.
[And I will swallow my pride, You're the one that I love]
He stared at the note. The note. The note that he kept hidden at the bottom of a cluttered drawer. The note he had written months ago, but had never gone though with. For he had hope.
But his hope was all but gone now.
[And I'm saying goodbye]
This time the note was set on the table, out in the open where anyone could easily find it.
John leaned heavily on his cane and hobbled up the stairs to his room.
He rarely went there anymore. But that day he needed to.
That is where he kept his gun.
[Say something, I'm giving up on you]
Images of Sherlock falling, his coat flapping in the wind as he plummeted, his broken body resting lifelessly on the pavement, his head open and bleeding followed John down the staircase.
The gun was shaking in his hand.
[I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you]
John sat heavily in the middle of the room, heart pounding, and eyes cold and distant as he thought of his love. His Sherlock.
He was going to him. He was going to spend eternity with that amazing, perfect, insane man.
The metal was cold against his lips.
[Anywhere I would have followed you]
Eyes shut tightly, John's knuckles turned white around the hand pistol as he imagined Sherlock there, holding him from behind.
He needed him. Needed to hear the man say something, anything. Tell him not to. Tell him to wait.
The raven haired man remained silent.
[Say something, I'm giving up on you]
The gunshot echoed through the flat, quickly followed by racing footsteps. The door slammed open and a sob broke from the man's throat.
Slow footsteps brought him to John's side. A thud reverberated through the floor boards as the man landed heavily on his knees to cradle John's limp body.
"John?" The deep baritone whispered, his voice cracking from unshed tears.
There was no response.
[Say something, I'm giving up on you]
Three minutes later, a second gunshot joined the two forever.
[Say something]