The Perditions of John

Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: The 1st Perdition of John
Summary: John deals with the moments in his life that have brought him to this place and his thoughts and first impressions of his Fall.
Character/Relationships: John/Sherlock

I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Note – This is my first attempt off the hunger games board. I have never seen the Sherlock series. I wanted to see if I could write someone besides Haymitch Abernathy and you can blame my new likey of this whole Johnlock thing on ElewynBrandt, because it is all her fault for getting me started! So even if it is horrible, do be kind – the closest thing I have to a brit-pick is my 13 year old who seems to be channeling one of you across the ponders – and uses all the British slang to insult his class-mates. Yes, he knows all the words to 'God Save The Queen' and bellows it with gusto each time someone considers playing' My country tis of Thee' anywhere near him. We think he's weird – so he's my Sherlock = in a London Fog trench coat that is not fashionable here in the states.

UPDATE –Yeah – I just spent day watching 1st season – so I made some adjustments. Did anyone catch the pill error in the 90 minute version? Or the error about the text sent to the killer?

1st perdition

Suicide.

John was no stranger to the call of darkness. He had made eye contact with the reaper on many occasions. John knew him well. Perhaps it was what he found so attractive about Sherlock. Maybe he'd always known that Sherlock would kill him. He expected it to be in a more exciting way. He didn't expect it to be death from bleak hopeless nothing.

He'd been here before. The first time he'd thought of it was while he was still at University. He'd lost someone and it was so senseless and bitter that he'd nearly found life pointless. He had watched someone die, helpless to know what to do. If he'd just known what to do. He got over it by changing his major and from that day on he would know what to do. John would be a doctor.

The next time death had slinked into his heart, was when he discovered that knowing what to do wasn't always enough. He learned to deal with it, losing patients. But it made him wonder if it was all worth it.

He'd joined the army. In truth he was not a brave man. In truth, he was no coward. In truth, he rode boldly toward the shadow. He wanted to save the brave men who rode boldly to Eldorado. He lost many. He climbed the mountains of the moon to save another and another. He felt like he had a purpose. He knew he would lose one day, but in the mean time it was glorious to flirt with life and death. He was good at what he did. John was not brave, because he was too happy and serene for it to be called bravery.

But, he did not find his welcome in the arms of death as he'd imagined it as a brave soldier, for a fellow knight in shining white and green saved him and sent him home to perdition, condemned to mediocre and lonely. Condemned to his monsters of the nocturnal who hungrily demanded a little more of his soul each night of sleepless sorrow. He limped. He had scars. He was of little value to anyone.

His therapist told him to write about his life. There was nothing worth writing about. He was getting behind on bills and had two weeks left before he would be evicted, homeless. That would be a popular post, money issues, health issues, mental issues. John couldn't wait to share his day to day events of dull useless wallowing in his life being effectively over. That would make him all better for certain. He was pretty certain his therapist had gotten her license at some internet paper mill abroad. That could explain her insistence on a blog as her preferred treatment plan.

He made the blog, but had yet to upload an entry. He couldn't think of anything worth saying, much less worthy to be read.

He couldn't find work for the damned tremor in his hand. He wasn't really a surgeon anymore, because that was one of those things hospitals were picky about these days, shaky handed surgeons were a liability. Surgeons with psychosomatic ailments were a half step away from homeless.

Death moved closer each hopeless day. They were old acquaintances now. Sitting alone in his flat, he smiled as he invited his acquaintance to dinner. There were the painless instruments on his coffee table. It has only taken him a week to acquire them. He was a doctor. He knew how to do this in the most pleasant form possible. Some days he looked at his pistol, knowing he wouldn't feel much that way either. Death looked at him without emotion and he returned the gaze.

Because there is no reason not to.

He silently challenged his guest.

Your therapist will feel like a failure?

Look at me. Do you call this successful?

You will make your sister sad.

Not really, she will use me as an excuse to do precisely what she has been. She will love me for giving her and excuse to tell people to sod off about her drinking for a while.

You are certain of this particular course of action?

I have nothing to stay for and in two weeks…

Take a walk first. It is a beautiful day. Pay attention. His guest replied. One last moment in the world and then we shall see to your appointment.

Yes. John Watson had said. He felt calm and peaceful from his choice.

He walked the familiar places. He was embarrassed about his limp, but he walked anyway.

He ran into an old friend. He was teaching now. He'd gotten amazingly fat. They went to lunch and it was nice to reminisce.

"Who would want me for a flat mate?" he'd asked Mike. Mike had smiled broadly, saying that was the second time he'd heard that today.

He introduced him to the strangest, most intriguing person he'd ever run across somewhere within the familiar bowels of St. Barts. This tall, blazing person had no boundaries, no rules and his superiority was forceful and had no safety. John was invited to look at a flat on the morrow. John almost thought it would be worth missing his own appointment to keep that one. He had no need to plan a future, but to just be near that something again, to have a chance to analyze it and figure out why he had none of that sort of majesty. He might stay for a bit.

He used the words riding crop and morgue in the same sentence. If John had any sense at all, that should have told him, maybe a bit not good.

He had no idea how long he walked after his interesting encounter. The sun was painting long shadows and he was drawn to turn onto Baker Street, the place where it may matter. The music pulled him. It moaned of his own heart, so filled with emptiness and so full of glorified sorrow. He paused below the window as a bloke slammed the door and crumpled a piece of pink paper and threw it on the ground with a comment of, "Stupid git."

Watson was not that curious about the man, other than he'd come out of the very building that was again sweetly playing his soul on the wind. It was a violin.

"You don't mind the violin, do you?" But of course he wasn't supposed to meet him there until tomorrow, so maybe it was a neighbor who also played.

He always wanted to learn but he was not in any way artistic. He found the only music his hands were capable of involved knitting of human flesh. He was an inverse butcher. An upscale tradesman. Up there, from that window, were hands meant to connect heaven and earth. He closed his eyes and inhaled the lavender air for the first time in ages and he felt lucky to be alive just for a split second. There was no time as the shadows lengthened and he stood so still as the violin cried.

The blissful sound stopped and he felt such loss, his eyes snapped open. He leaned on his cane and waited, looking upward hopefully. There was no more. It was time to go. He smiled at this last gift as he turned toward home and his appointment. His cane skittered the wadded up bit of pink trash and on a whim, he bent to pick it up. He hated people who littered. He took a step and almost threw it in the rubbish bin, when he uncrumpled it out of mild curiosity.

It was an advertisement for a person of exemplarily credentials to share a flat. It was in this very building. He stared at it for a moment. He looked skyward and wondered if it could be the player of a certain violin. He smiled. He had no intent of agreeing to the arrangements, but it might be a chance to meet the artist. He hoped that this violin belonged to a tall man who's eyes changed color with ethereal light, all their own.

He would not do anything as horrid as thank him for making his last hours on earth so enjoyable, but he so hoped to be able to do some small kindness, if it was indeed fated that he could lay eyes on his bringer of light.

He knocked on the door.

Pale skin and livid eyes. The magnificent one, here already. Sherlock nodded, pleased response only flashing in his eyes and the curl of his lip for a second.

Sherlock Holmes. The owner of a violin. A man of odd temperament and frightening intelligence. A man who made the doctor feel so very average, yet somehow of value. The sociopath who has no manners and is supposedly an unfeeling freak. How could anyone see him as unfeeling if they had heard him play?

He didn't agree to move in right away, though for the life of him, he couldn't imagine what he was thinking even by agreeing to return tomorrow and meet the landlady. He had planned to die and now he had made obligations for himself. It was injudicious. It was deplorable. It was pure magic.

He sat in his flat that night, thinking of how strange life could be. There was something about the man that seemed dangerous and yet destined.

He, what kind of a name is Sherlock, at once had John's attention. There was nothing like this man. He was ethereal and graceful and petulant and aloof and beautiful.

When John had asked about the violin, the man's eyes dropped and he looked disgusted. When he asked him to play, standing there in the darkness cloaked room with his cane gripped tight, to keep from shivering in the cool light of this man, Sherlock had gestured for him to sit and then lifted the instrument and tucked it under his chin. John had taken his place, what would soon be his chair, and his eyes closed as the man began to tell him all John needed to know from the waves he brought forth.

One song would end and John would open his eyes at once, begging with no words for more. Sherlock acquiesced aloofly the first time. But as the evening moon climbed high, a small smile appeared. There were no words sweeping the room as the two men grew to be friends.

Finally, Sherlock stopped. "You will do. You may return and we will see what Mrs. Hudson has to say."

"Thank you." John rose to set on his way.

John searched the internet that next day for information on his potential flat mate. What he found, the science of deduction, proved more confusing than he expected. He wondered if the whole thing was a spoof of some sort. Some things did make sense, that people had no idea how much they could determine about those around them if they simply paid attention. John felt that was true. He used the same sort of thing in his profession, though to a lesser degree than asserted here.

John himself could gage a pain level of a patient, by reading his eyebrows. There were many who could be in near agony, yet would say they were perfectly alright. If their eyebrows told him otherwise, he knew to keep looking, rather than trust their word. Also, it enabled him to quite accurately determine the sort of frequent flyer who sought pain medications for recreational purposes rather than actual need. The eyebrows rarely lied, though patients often did.

He could see some of the points made on the website, though many seemed so farfetched he had shaken his head at such boasts as being able to tell if a person was guilty by eye movement in a particular direction or if someone was a pilot by looking at their left thumb. John had seen his demonstration of observance, which was amazing, yet he also noticed how Sherlock did not observe as many equally important things as he did pick up.

Sherlock certainly didn't notice that the girl who brought him the coffee was insanely lovesick for him. He didn't notice that John was within hours of suicide, nor was he careful with his feelings while rattling off that his injury might be all in his head. John on the other hand, had formed some opinion of his aloof arrogance and the reasons behind his sleepless claim. The difference was John had a filter. He didn't state that Sherlock was possibly ADHD with autistic tendencies and that he was maladjusted to his environment because he presented some indicators of Asperger's syndrome as well as sociopathic detachment due to some probable childhood trauma.

Sherlock didn't notice everything by a long shot. He was a very interesting person and the way he played the violin was both pleasant to the ear but like an open window to the aloof Sherlock Holmes inner self.

John waited outside at fifteen minutes before seven o'clock. Sherlock swept out of a cab with grace and a genuine smile as he extended his hand and formally introduced himself. He seemed in a more amiable state of mind in the rare London sun and John couldn't help but smile with pleasure at the unusual history and easy dynamics between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson mothered Sherlock as he pretended not to notice in any way, yet his lack of frustration with her chatter said far more than the taciturn replies he'd demonstrated the day before.

John flushed with embarrassment when Mrs. Hudson jumped to the conclusion that John would consider the second bedroom unnecessary. What had he told her about him? He was a little miffed that Sherlock made no move of any kind to correct her misplaced deductions. John was most vocal in his insistence that two rooms were indeed necessary. He was not as offended honestly as simple thrown off by her surety. John had never once been accused of giving off any vibes of homosexuality.

He was most concerned that he'd somehow put Sherlock off the flat mate idea if he was somehow reading him as showing interest in a relationship. John looked around the flat, realizing that it exuded a great deal more chaos than he'd been aware of last night. He tried to imagine the place clean, but as it dawned on him that his potential room-mate is simply a pig, and there was a somewhat unpleasant smell that hung about, he was having second thoughts.

Within ten minutes, a man showed up to ask for Sherlock's help in a police matter. He was calm and cool about the request until the moment the man was gone and then began jumping around like a teen girl who had just been asked on a first date. John waited patiently to hear some explanation, but was simply met with the swish of coat tails and demand that Mrs. Hudson provide the unimportant guest with tea. She made him angry by saying she could tell John was the sit down type. He had no idea how long he was expected to wait to work out the details of his possible move. He cursed his leg in frustration. He was as useless as ever and found the whole situation beyond his contempt.

Then Sherlock returned and his heart leaped as he invited him to have a peek at his world. "Want to see some more?"

Off they went into the unknown. John had no idea what to expect. He had no idea what was wanted of him. He tried to play along, but as he stepped out of the crime scene, realizing he'd again been left behind without so much as a word, he stomped away with no intention of ever speaking to Sherlock again.

Then, he found a reason to be even more confused. He was effectively kidnapped. He didn't associate this new development with Sherlock in any way at first. He had been to war and he had some impression that this may have to do with some contact he'd made during his military service. He had treated thousands of soldiers, and some were not strictly soldiers alone. He wondered if it was one of his patients or their family perhaps who had made this gesture of bizarre invitation. Either there was someone important who wanted to thank him, or someone who begrudged the fact he'd been unable to save their loved one. Either way, John was having an entertaining night, and the woman next to him was turning his mind to the hope of adventure of a different sort.

He should have known it had to do with Sherlock. He stood his ground, detached and yet still confused as he discovered that these people who had shown all this power to impress him only wanted him to spy on someone who he hadn't even decided he wanted to put up with. No he wasn't going to get involved with all this in any way. He wondered exactly what kind of trouble this Sherlock was in.

The well-dressed man seemed very certain that John was physically involved with Sherlock. Twice in one evening, that was rather telling, yet he had seen no sign of that sort of interest. He sighed at the prospect of moving in with a person on the wrong side of the government, who the very people he'd agreed to assist mentioned as a future murderer, and who, on top of it all, seemed to make everyone he encountered at once assume he was Gay.

He kept texting him the entire time he was kidnapped and John wondered if Sherlock had spotted them and had simply been unable to wait to explain. That at least meant he had not just abandoned him because he was too boring and useless to remember. John stopped at his little rental and collected his weapon. He had no permit to carry it, but that was far from his apparent need to carry it while in association with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was peacefully lounging on the couch as he arrived. He seemed less than surprised at the details John shared. In fact, he exuded no alarm in any way. He had the woman's suitcase and yet calmly explained that he had found it. While John had been under surveillance and dealing with the worry that Sherlock was in danger, Sherlock obliviously ranted about the thought process of the murderer.

"Dinner. I know a place." That was all. No further prompting was needed for John to follow. He just did. Solar objects caught in a pull, that had no concept of orbit.

Sherlock seemed to both want to catch the man who he sought and yet almost speak of him with awe. "Genius needs an audience," he said.

John looked at him with a sideways disgust. Well, he thought, that explains what you see me as. You are the genius and I am your audience, you oblivious prick. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The small talk and John's attempts at conversation at the restaurant, were insanely uncomfortable and never quite ended up in the realm of what John intended. Sherlock and his 'date' were eating on the house. Third time he'd been mistaken for a gay man in his lifetime, all in one night. He tried to broach the subject with Sherlock, hoping to sound casual and let the man know that even if he was gay, it would not affect his decision to be or not be his flat-mate.

It ended up being one of those painfully uncomfortable moments. John had survived them in the past. Sorry, I don't want to have a shag with you, but it was somehow much more humiliating when it came from a man. He had no wish to ever be with a man and yet, here he was being treated as if he'd just made a pass at him.

A few hours later, he found the need to call on his perpetual acquaintance. He shot, once. He murdered as coolly as if he had never heard the words, do no harm. He gave no thought to the consequences as he raised the pistol and did what needed to be done to save the life that mattered. He knew his own was probably ruined in that flash and scent of powder. But, one life needed existence among the three of them. His acquaintance could not have Sherlock.

His kidnapper, it turned out, was no dark threat against his new friend. The man with the umbrella and the notebook about his personal details was just Sherlock's brother. Sherlock had a brother. John decided that Sherlock could be the most interesting person he'd ever met.

He had no idea what he'd just gotten himself into. He had not even requested to view the room he expected to occupy. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except for the light that shone from the man as his chin caressed the violin and the constant thrill the world presented in adrenalin rush as long as he was allowed to be his audience.

If anyone was ever in the need of an actual friend, it was Sherlock. And if anyone was ever in need of a Sherlock, it was John. John had found home. He canceled his woeful appointment as well as his useless therapy sessions and moved his pathetic array of possessions into the life of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock became his therapy. He became Sherlock's therapy as well.

For the first time in his life, he was filled with purpose. If Sherlock had been a baker of cakes or a jewel thief, John would have helped. It turned out he was an oddly unemployed detective of some sort who forgot to eat, who smoked like a chimney, who rarely slept at all, who had a drug addiction from time to time, who was the most annoying being to ever exist. John was insanely happy in his presence, when he wasn't grossed out, confused or offended. John learned quickly to prepare himself before opening the refrigerator. He may be a doctor, but he had never once taken any flesh trophies of his work home for display in the cooler. Eventually, by the time their time and adventures were near an end, John thought he was prepared.

The possibility had certainly never stopped them from dashing into danger. One of them or both of them could die. It was understood. But, not on purpose. Not like that. Not Sherlock.

Sherlock was as brass as a candlestick. Sherlock was as golden as a halo. Sherlock was as detailed as the devil. John no longer met the eyes of the shadow. John is, for the first time in his life, truly alive. He did know from experience that Sherlock could die. He knew that in the end, it was more than likely that Sherlock would get John killed in one of his save the world adventures. They needed it for different reasons, but they both needed danger. But he never would have guessed that Sherlock would just give up. Giving up was not an option so long as they were together, because they were invincible as a team.

Best friends on the road to perdition.

Two souls in danger of the fall.

The brilliant searing sun and his sidekick the cool quiet moon.

Sherlock and just John.

Sometimes he does lose his temper with him. Sometimes he just wants a more definite reaction, an acknowledgement, an emotional impossible from Sherlock.

John and he had been skittering around the change in how they viewed the other for some time. They had somehow become a couple, without becoming a couple. John and he had never discussed the way they interacted now. It was ignored and carefully avoided on all surface levels.

John dated. Sherlock did not. John pretended. Sherlock never once denied anyone's claim that there was more than danger and cases between them. He never confirmed it either, but John was the one who always had to defend the status of single and straight.

John did wonder if he meant more to Sherlock then he said. John knew something was wrong with him in that he was no longer as offended by such comments. John had lost his complete aversion to the knowing looks and constant assumptions about what kind of partners they were. It even pleased him secretly when a man would look at Sherlock with appreciation and then look at him with a brooding jealousy. Nothing was going on, intentionally, yet John was slightly flattered in some way that everyone assumed John was in Sherlock's league. Sherlock could have had anyone, male or female.

Yet Sherlock was his in all the ways that mattered. They trusted each other. They were closer than anyone and really other than sex, they completed the others needs for everything. If they needed to talk, or rant or bicker or laugh or just know that someone in the world needed them to be there every day, they had found their perfect match. There were no words of this slow depth they had reached, but sometimes there was something. There were these looks in which their eyes met and locked for far too long. There were personal space issues that seemed near electric.

John had even wondered on two occasions if Sherlock was about to kiss him. He wondered if he would stop him if he did. He noticed how many times they were working and Sherlock seemed determined to hover near John rather than snatch the item and maintain his distance. John knew he felt things he wasn't quite capable of admitting.

The question was if he did let go and feel these things would he end up being another Molly? Molly would have done anything to get Sherlock to give her a second look, yet Sherlock seemed to go out of his way to be especially aloof and abrasive to her. If Sherlock realized he was feeling similar emotions, would Sherlock make John his new Molly? Would he lose this place he has now and become just another pathetic thing Sherlock ignored aggressively.

He was unwilling to bring up the subject. Sherlock had yet to make his own personal field of attraction a solid statement. John had tried to catch him looking lustfully at anything other than dead things, but had yet to see the expression demonstrated on Sherlock's face with any other human being. He sometimes thought maybe he saw it pointed his way, but it always vanished before he could be sure.

John had been in this limbo of confusion for some time and yet had no way to settle it one way or the other without gambling everything. He'd hinted. He had let Sherlock catch him peeking at him with the question blazing in his eyes. Sherlock would turn the corners of his mouth up for a split second and pick up his violin.

So, in anger he'd lashed out when Sherlock seemed so annoyed that Mrs. Hudson had inconvenienced his thinking schedule by getting shot.

Had John broken his heart with that hateful word?

"Machine." He hadn't meant it. He'd meant, notice me, explain to me, help me understand, let me in. Let me help. Stop being right and just be less wrong. He'd meant, If I can't hurt you, then it is true that you can't love me. That you don't' love me. That you never will love me. Please, stop being fake and show me you give a damned. Please love me back.

And then he did.

Sherlock on the roof of Saint Bart's.

And John's soul screamed for the man who didn't scream as he tumbled. John's old friend had stolen him. Death laughed at John as he flew away with the spirit of Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes

The gravestone said in shiny granite, solid and sure.

It may as well have said Holmes and Watson.

As Holmes silently passed the third story, still accelerating toward maximum free-fall velocity, Johnny Watson, died first, screaming in the perdition he created with that one word he'd said. Machine.

John stopped living and felt like a hero every single day he didn't die of a broken heart. He became that Machine he had accused his friend of being.

He wanted Sherlock to prove he loved John enough to be capable of pain. John deserved to make a mistake. John deserved to have a day in which he went overboard just a little. Sherlock had said things that were much worse in terms of hurtful to John and yet, Sherlock didn't know any better. It was so much worse that John should have known better and chose to hurt him with intent. He had as good as murdered Sherlock with his own hand.

The Doctor had done harm. Sherlock gave him his show. He made him stand there and he cried on the phone. Sherlock loved him enough that just one word from The Doctor could destroy the entire world. He didn't push him off the ledge. No, in the eyes of the law, John Watson was innocent of any wrong doing. But John knew. God, how was he to live with it? Sherlock would never have lost his last tiny fierce thread of hope if Watson had not stood there callously snipping with his good pair of doctor scissors.

Who's the freak now Sherlock? Who is the one who called and fell to his death, just because his needy weak best friend let him down? Who was the fake after all? John didn't need the judge's gavel or the slam of a metal cage door, to know he was guilty. He killed Sherlock because he is the one who put him on that roof in the first place.

Tell everyone, I am a fake, a fraud. Did that really mean… Because if you don't believe in me, I don't care what any of the rest of the world thinks. Let them scourge my name for all time, because you picked what you wanted the most, John. You wanted to blend and be mediocre. You wanted to be with them and not me. So be it.

I'm bored and I am off for the next adventure, John.

This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.

Goodbye

John

And there had been two terrible thuds. One is a bicycle knocking into him. As the cyclist looked up at the falling man, he'd inadvertently made contact with the man who was now fallen. Fallen to perdition. John Watson the Doctor of destruction.

A life well lived comes from the structured pursuit of meaningful happiness.

That stopped existing for Dr. John Watson the moment he really understood the full measure of his actions and the full depths of how much he had missed in his friend. He was faking things. He faked the aloof disdain. Sherlock had been right, John was not smart enough to see the love Sherlock had felt for him. He didn't believe in the devil and he missed the details of the truth about Sherlock.

John was a man of science. He never believed in a real hell or eternal damnation. He did have hope for heaven or at least something that could let him one day again be near the spirit of Sherlock. He didn't deserve it. He deserved Perdition. Good intentions could make that place real, but hurtful intentions made John walk boldly under the sign. Sherlock hung the sign that welcomed him to hell.

It read, "You didn't pay attention. So now you must deduce."

That was what Sherlock's last phone call meant to John Watson. Is this big enough for you to see? Can your simple little mind conceive what I felt for you now? How carelessly you took my secretly offered heart and weighed it and bagged it. Now move on and figure out all the clues I left you.

The will is read. John vomits at the huge estate. Mycroft offers to continue to manage the holdings, just like he always had for his brother. John shakes his head. " I don't want it. I don't want any of it."

"It may come to pass that you will find use for it. Perhaps you will wish some remembrance of him, in the form of a scholarship, or you may someday require it while clearing his name. Don't throw it away. Don't insult this last thing he wished. He had faith you would use it for good. He saw such good in you, John. Never forget that," Mycroft had said quietly in his bland demanding way.

They were meant to be words of comfort. Mycroft couldn't have known of their last words in person. Mycroft couldn't know he'd just locked the gates to hell. The violin is silent here in the abyss.

Life with Sherlock was full of notes. So was death. They had begun with a note that wasn't a note, but the interpretation of a music note brought to life. They ended with a note that wasn't a note, but a call which brought death. There were notes everywhere. They clogged every cubby of the apartment, filled with his scrawling short hand involving cases. They had appeared on his phone each time SH had a detail to share.

They had been tucked under a cushion, half finished, never to be fulfilled. John had stopped eating by then. He held the partial compositions in his lap and smeared them with tears.

Ode to my John in spring. Dead notes from a brilliant mind.

John in E flat, staccato. 'Hurry John, I am bored.'

Autumn leaves with the grace of John Oh. God. Sherlock. Why.

No longer music, just notes.

Lost like him. Lost like Sherlock.

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a highly functioning sociopath. Do your research."

"We've got a serial killer! Love those, there's always something to look forward to."

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

Donovan: "Are these human eyes?"
Sherlock: "Put those back!"
Donovan: "They were in the microwave!"
Sherlock: "It's an experiment!"

John: "You, ripping off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
Sherlock: "People do little else."

The unseen clues, his unsaid words. John had seen but not observed. Sherlock had observed but was not able to deduce the impossible. Love is impossible. It killed Sherlock. Did that mean he'd been right all along?

John walked through each day, aloof to his shadows, but believing, hoping, praying for the impossible. It was all he had left.

I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop, just stop this...

And so ended the first perdition and the second perdition slipped into being.

Thank you for reading - I would love to hear your opinion and having now seen the first season {{{{{happy dance}}}}}} I hope I fixed the time line some. I know my first night with the violin didn't occur, but I think I fixed it enough that it could have. Please, please review.