Bittersweet
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John and Sherlock are at the culmination of their latest case. They are running, chasing a criminal through the busy evening traffic, on foot, weaving in and out between cars, jumping back when somebody hits the breaks too late, bumping into hoods, having their ear drums assaulted with exasperated honking.
They are both panting with exertion, but Sherlock is still confidently leading the way, John following the blue scarf fluttering behind him…
Another honk.
A car swerves out of the way just in time as they plunge into the oncoming traffic, diving in like sharks among a shoal of tuna. They run on the stripe between two lanes with the cars rushing by, exhilarated by the danger, by the feeling of being alive.
There's a truck speeding their way now, tarpaulin snapping in the wind and held in place by a number of straps and buckles. Sherlock's hair fans out in the wave of air the vehicle is pushing ahead of itself like a snow plough carving through ice crystals. The gust doesn't deter him, doesn't keep him from moving perilously close past the lorry.
Sherlock's scarf is whipping around behind his head like it has a life of its own, caught in the air current from the truck. It snags on the second to last buckle strap, only for an instant but it is enough. His body jerks slightly. There is a sickening pop. The piece of cloth rips lose again. The truck passes, roaring on down the road… and like a marionette with its strings cut Sherlock's body slumps to the ground, right in the middle of the street.
It is over too quickly for John to process the sheer horror of it. He doesn't even have time to scream, to shout out a warning, do anything about what is unfolding a mere two steps from him. Everything is happening so fast that he only is able later to separate the events into different moments at all: One moment they are racing, hot on the heels of their quarry. The next John is skidding to his knees beside his friend on the ground.
The frantic rush of the world around them recedes, slows to a crawl, creating a bubble in reality for the both of them. Cars stop with screeching tires just short of where they are, forming a protective barrier of metal, but it is too late.
"Sherlock!" John, calls, breathless, even though he already suspects from what he witnessed that it's useless. He feels sick with a shaky weakness flooding his limbs. "Jesus, no."
He turns Sherlock over with hands trembling from the adrenalin of the suddenly aborted chase.
There is no blood.
There doesn't need to be any.
Sherlock's head lolls oddly as John takes the body into his arms. His eyes are open but unseeing in a relaxed face and that is how John knows, without even checking, that - just like that – Sherlock Holmes is dead. The force of the detectives' body weight moving into one direction and several tons of cargo in the other has been enough to make the briefest instant of connecting these two opposing forces through his scarf a deadly manifestation of simple physics: His slender neck has been snapped like a twig in a storm.
Now, John's fingers search Sherlock's throat for a pulse. As expected, there is none. They move on to his cervical spine. The vertebrae are in tact but… oh. Between the second and third one there is a clearly palpable dislocation. The stacked column of bone and nerves has been toppled over.
John sits back on his heels, numb, staring. Car doors are opening around him. Somebody is calling an ambulance on their mobile phone. He doesn't pay them any mind. There are sirens drawing closer. Someone shakes John's shoulder, asks if he is alright. He nods automatically.
Later he finds himself in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in an orange blanket, sitting and watching Sherlock being gently rocked back and forth on the stretcher beside him as the van moves, the detectives' skin as white as the sheet drawn up to his chest, lips blue. Someone has closed his eye lids.
He looks small.
John would not have let them put him in a body bag and somebody must have listened because they are now both here, on their way to an emergency room neither of them needs and where no one will be able to help either of them.
John covers his face with his hands, taking a few deep breaths. He truly doesn't know what to do. Lifting his eyes, he continues to stare at Sherlock, drinking him in as long as he can. When they get to the hospital, he will have to let him go. There will be questions and paperwork and the body will be needed to be officially identified and properly pronounced. From the moment the ambulance doors open Sherlock will be just another carcass, a piece of meat like the ones he liked to play with in their kitchen.
But until then, John allows himself to not let the realisation take hold that his best friend is dead. Until that moment, they are on their way to be saved though John is fully aware there is no salvation here.
He considers taking Sherlock's hand but the thought of holding his cold fingers frightens him.
.-.-.-.-.-.
When they arrive at the hospital, Mycroft is already there but he doesn't seem to know much more than that his brother has been in an accident. In that light it is all the more surprising that he would bother to come at all.
John slowly climbs down from the ambulance feeling heavy, like he is a hundred years old.
"John," Mycroft nods in greeting, expression immobile, while two paramedics busy themselves with unloading their cargo from the back of the van. "What happened?"
John looks up into the face of Sherlock's older brother and feels his eyes start to sting. He doesn't know what to tell him. Swallowing, he tries to compose himself, drawing on the experience gathered in a war that he survived, when many others didn't. This is a family member, he reminds himself; he'll have to keep it together for his sake. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly.
"Mycroft. Let's… let's just move over here for a moment." The words burn in his throat like dried bread crusts. He puts a hand on the older mans' arm, taking a step to get them out of the way of the working paramedics and turning their backs to the ambulance.
Mycroft watches him through instantly narrowed eyes, frowning, but complying.
All the words seem to have left John, then, his mind painfully blank. "Sherlock… I… He's…" His throat convulses, closing on the words with a click, but he doesn't have to say any more. They both turn because just then the gurney is lifted from the back of the vehicle with Sherlock lying on it, pale and still.
To a man like Mycroft it is quite obvious that there had been no attempt to accord him any sort of medical care. No IV-lines, no bandages, no tubes,… And Mycroft, being just as observant as Sherlock ever was, immediately deducts the reason, of course.
For a moment his face is contorted by pure shock and agony. He twitches towards his brother before reining himself in, a hard and dead mask settling over his features.
"Mycroft, I'm so sorry," John says, voice cracking under the weight of his words. His eyes prickle even more but he pushes the sensation away. "It was over so quickly. I – there was nothing-" He breaks off, gulping in air before the pressure can crush him.
Mycroft is not looking at him. His gaze is fixed on the body. "Tell me what happened." He seems eerily collected for someone who just found out their little brother is dead.
John tells him. How they were chasing a suspect through heavy traffic. That there was a truck. That Sherlock's scarf caught on the passing vehicle. That it snapped his neck.…
"…You know how Sherlock loves-" John breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut. "loved his scarf and… it - it all happened so fast. I couldn't- There was nothing- oh god!" A huge, shaking sob wrenches itself free of John's tight control but he clamps down on it immediately, clenching his fists to counter the pain in his chest with the bite of nails digging into his palms. He breathes in an effort to calm himself. "Sorry, sorry. I shouldn't… he was your brother."
Mycroft turns jerkily on his heel to disappear into the building.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Half an hour later Lestrade arrives at the hospital, slightly out of breath. "We caught 'im," he announces to John. "You drove 'im right into our arms. Anyway, I heard you two had ended up here and I came as fast as I could. What happened? Where's Sherlock? I need to talk to him about a few details."
John swallows, searching for words. He discards a dozen sentences before he settles on being candid. He just doesn't have the strength to carry a conversation.
Lestrade looks at him expectantly, face growing worried as he watches John opening his mouth, jaw working, but nothing coming out. "That bad?" he offers eventually.
"Gre-g," John starts, the name cracking in the middle. "Sherlock is dead." His voice comes out hoarse and broken. He tries to steady it the way he learned in Afghanistan when he needed to deliver bad news but it doesn't work.
"What?" The incredulity in Lestrade's face would be funny if it were any other situation. He clearly thinks John has just made a very tactless joke, but sobers up instantly when John's pinched, stony expression crumples, eyes filling with damp before he squeezes them shut. The soldier tries to remain stoic. Of course it's useless.
"No. Oh god! What… what happened?" He listens to John's brief account of the events on the highway. Lestrade's knees seem to give out in slow motion and he sinks down onto one of the plastic waiting chairs lining the wall.
"I don't believe it," he breathes. "I just can't believe that he… Are you sure? I mean, have you checked?- Sorry! It's just... Just like that… I always thought it would be a stray bullet or an ambush or… Hell!" He rubs his hands over his face, takes a steadying breath. "I'm so sorry, John!... Are you okay?"
John gives a startled, slightly hysterical bark of laughter. "What do you think? I'm – Right now I just want to go home but then I'll have to tell Mrs. Hudson. And the flat… Who's going to help me pay the rent now? I won't be able to afford it. I really don't know what-"
He can't seem to draw enough air into his lungs to continue. Sucking in huge, deep breaths only seem to worsen the tension in his gut, not alleviate it. He realizes he's hyperventilating when Lestrade places a hand on his shoulder, looking torn between concern and grief. The touch is like a needle to a balloon. John starts to sob.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Mycroft is with Sherlock when Lestrade goes to see the incomprehensible for himself. The elder Holmes just stands there, staring at the body laid out on the bier before him. It's unmistakably Sherlock.
Just when Lestrade thinks about leaving again to give them both some privacy, Mycroft steps forward, brushing a hand across Sherlock's forehead and through his raven hair. He lingers in the position for a moment, fingers buried in the dark curls, before stooping down to kiss his brother's brow and whispering something Lestrade can't hear. The little gesture almost breaks his heart.
Suddenly, he feels like a horrible person, intruding on something so private and intimate that is a sacrilege to witness but he seems unable to tear his eyes away. He really shouldn't be here! But just as he shakes himself out of it enough to begin a quiet retreat before he can be discovered, Mycroft straightens and turns. His eyes immediately find the inspector watching him.
Mycroft nods at him, face impassive, showing no surprise at all to find himself not alone. In fact, he looks completely devoid of any emotion, features chiselled from pale, unmoving marble. "Detective inspector."
His voice is as steady and bored as ever. If Greg weren't seeing him standing there, right next to his dead brother, he'd be seriously doubting his senses.
"I – I'm sorry. I didn't mean…," Lestrade starts. Mycroft just raises an eyebrow and Lestrade backs away. "I apologize for intruding, sir." He forces the words past the lump in his throat.
Mycroft shakes his head. "It is quite alright, detective inspector. You wanted to see for yourself, didn't you? Don't concern yourself, I was just leaving." He gestures to the body. "Please. Take a look if you like. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
The precise control in Mycroft's voice is both astonishing and bone-chilling. Lestrade is so stunned that he mutely steps aside as Mycroft brushes past him to get to the door. "Good day to you."
Just before the door closes he remembers himself. "I- I'm sorry for your loss," he stammers at Mycroft's back. He isn't sure the other man heard him and if he did he most likely doesn't care. Alone now, he approaches Sherlock as the door falls shut with a click.
For a minute he stands there, staring at the pale form. "Oh Sherlock, my boy, what have you done?" he eventually whispers with a sad sigh. The body doesn't answer.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Later, after the formalities are settled, Mycroft joins John in the hallway. "It's not your fault, John," he says quietly, even though his face looks like he has to force the words out. Maybe he is saying them to apprehend any idea of revenge before it can form.
John feels his eyes starting to sting again with guilt and the pain of their loss.
"You were not his keeper," Mycroft continues. "It wasn't your job to keep him save." It was mine. The words Mycroft is not saying hang in the air between them.
John nods at his hands. "Thank you."
Mycroft's face is stormy. Somewhere there is an unsuspecting lorry driver who will most likely have hell to pay if they ever find him. John has no strength to spare for feeling angry at a stranger, though. It was no one's fault but Sherlock's that he had been where he'd been at that moment.
.-.-.-.-.-.
It's only when he's at home and the numb shock is wearing off a little that John starts to really feel the pain. He wanders through the flat and somehow ends up sitting on Sherlock's bed. At the sight of the familiar bathrobe hanging on a hook inside the door he finally allows himself to not sob, but cry. They are the first tears of what is going to be a long time of grief.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Looking back, John could have thought of worse ways for Sherlock to go. He had died in the middle of doing what he loved best without even noticing. It had been a quick death, a clean and painless one. No blood, not guts, no suffering. Sherlock literally hadn't even known what hit him. John is grateful for that, at least.
But it also was a meaningless accident, a waste of what could have been a brilliant and full life for many decades to come – for both of them. He is able to admit that now. He knows what they had and now he is also painfully aware of what they will never have.
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Somehow, John feels like he is moving through a dream and might wake up at any moment to a noise from downstairs or the acrid smell of burning hair from yet another experiment gone wrong. But he is a realist, a scientist, a practical person.
Doctor.
Soldier.
He tries to force himself into an accepting mindset and find a balance again, some measure of stability he can work with. It's hard, so hard that sometimes he thinks the strain might break his back as well as his heart, but somehow he manages to gather his legs back under himself.
Going to work helps. Sharing biscuits and memories with Mrs. Hudson helps. Going for a pint with Greg and reminiscing helps. Even Mycroft's polite, but forced enquiries about how he is doing help.
There are days he thinks he might be fine, that he's finally over it. The sun is shining and he is alive – until he hears some passer-by talk on the phone in a deep, resounding voice or sees a tall figure looming over the crowd gathering for the bus. Then he berates himself for being stupid, for thinking things will ever be okay again, because they won't.
Except that they will. Because that is the nature of life. You suffer. You get over it. The past becomes a glorified haze.
.
A year after Sherlock has died John stands at his grave and finally finds himself telling him all the things he wanted to say, but didn't say. Ella would be proud of him if he hadn't stopped going to see her months ago, he thinks.
The words break open and empty out another big pocket of tears that still seem to be hidden deep in his chest cavity, even after all the time he has spent crying alone in gloomy corners of their – his – flat. Because yes, he did stay at Baker Street, after all. Mrs. Hudson is only charging him as much as he can spare these days. They both can't bear to have what is left of their unlikely family be ripped apart.
.
Two years after Sherlock has died, John looks up from the morning paper at the scull sitting on the mantle piece and finds himself thinking that he is finally okay, that things did get better despite everything. The pain has receded as far as it probably ever will and left all the fond memories of their time together behind like the tide withdrawing and leaving in its wake a treasure of gleaming, colourful pebbles on the beach, which make John smile when he picks them up to examine them.
.
Two and a half years after, he discovers that his wounds haven't quite healed, after all, when Greg tells him about a tricky serial killer case they have on their hands and he inevitably has to think about how exhilarated Sherlock would have been.
It's like Sherlock is speaking cutting remarks into his ear, right there in the pub. He ends up crying helplessly into his pint while Greg awkwardly pats his shoulder. Another deep-festering boil has been lanced. Greg bites his tongue but doesn't apologize.
.
For a few weeks after the incident John's emotions are raw and painful again and he wonders how he ever could have thought that things would get better, but they do.
.
Eventually, another year passes, and then another. Now, it's only looking at old photographs from their g(l)ory days that sometimes brings a wistful tear to his eye, but it's always accompanied by a fond smile on his lips.
One day, John finds that the grief is like his own heart beat: a part of him, ever present, but he only feels it when he thinks about it. It's no longer painful, but a sweet ache in the back of his mind.
He forgets about Sherlock's birthday and the date of his death, but the day they risked their lives for each other at Moriarty's pool is etched into his memory. Minds are strange that way.
.
When he gets married to a certain Miss Mary Morstan, she also agrees to move in with him, but only if he packs away the scull. According to her, it is rather disquieting to have it staring at you from the mantle piece whenever you sit down for tea. It's a small enough sacrifice for having her in his life.
They rearrange the furniture to accommodate her own things.
Not long after, the second bedroom – the one which was John's in the beginning – is turned into a nursery.
They share a dog with Mrs. Hudson, who is delighted at becoming a granny.
Mycroft hasn't been heard from in a long while and Greg tries not to take John away too much from his family.
Sherlock's ghost in the old rooms has turned from a heavy, depressing shadow into a benevolent presence. In their children's imagination he is even something of a fairy tale character.
His daughter has found the deerstalker on the top shelf of the upstairs closet and there are frequent fights over it. John smiles as the children race around the flat, screeching and laughing. He is reminded of another overgrown child that used to live here but vacated his spot to let these new kids in. Guess who they are dressing up as…
~the end?~
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I'm sorry. I know this is missing something. It's missing a point. It's missing an ending. But I just wanted to write this scene at the beginning – Sherlock dying a pointless, non-heroic, unforeseeable death - and from there it just seemed to grow and grow. I just thought I'd publish it now rather than keep extending it to the point of infinity.
Also, I realize it's a kind of therapeutic piece for myself. Things like this do happen, but it gets better.
Oh, and this has neither been beta-ed, not brit-picked. Please do feel free to point out any mistakes to me.
Also, I suck at titles. Sorry.