Dreams of Burnt Soul: Part 2
The pounding on the door came again. And again. And again. John was lying on the floor, too exhausted to scream "go away". So he didn't. He was too tired to cry; he was too tired to breathe. His body, however, continued to do both of these to his dismay. He was awkwardly slumped against the bed and wall, his head on the floor his legs in a tangled mess under him. His sobs had quieted, and he was now just swallowing his breaths inadvertently.
"Go away." He managed to whisper, though no one could hear. Why wouldn't Mrs. Hudson just go away? John wanted to know. Why did she let him live here in 221 B for free? Why did she feed him? Especially when he would much rather starve to death. "If she cared for me at all," he thought, "she would let me die." The pounding came once more then stopped.
"Oh thank god." John sighed too soon. The next pounding was a great deal louder accompanied by the sound of cracking wood and a shout. John heard the tumblers unlock and the door swing up.
"John?" Cried the voices of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They immediately climbed upstairs to John's bedroom. Though he wasn't there. John was relieved for a brief moment; one because he still had a moment or two before they found him and two because they obviously overestimated his ability to recover; as if he would be sleeping in his own bedroom, when he could cry himself to sleep in Sherlock's.
"John?" They bellowed his name in a melancholy harmony. Obviously they know I'm here. Don't they realize I'm just not going to answer? John was in a horribly irritable mood. He didn't notice, but the fire suddenly had a target.
"Why couldn't they just leave him alone?" He wanted to know. That's what he thought he planned to ask. However, even when he decided his question, he knew they'd be lucky if he lifted his head to greet them.
They searched the whole flat before stumbling into Sherlock's bedroom. Fools he wanted to say. Sherlock would have know I was in here before I em even came into the room.
"John!" They both rejoiced at his being found. John looked up at them, obviously annoyed. He rolled his eyes laid his head back on the floor.
"Oh, John, honey. Did you have a fall?" Mrs. Hudson inquired as if John was an old man who had simply lost his balance in the night.
Quite right, Mrs. Hudson. I decided I needed some water so I got up, and would you be damned! My legs just fucking gave out! Would you believe it? Like honestly, what the bloody hell do you think..
He remained silent.
She rushed over to him, Lestrade in tow. They both helped him on his feet and walked him to the living room, where they sat him in a chair.
"I'll make you a pot of tea!" She chimed as she turned on her heel. Lestrade sat in Sherlock's chair and smiled at John.
John smiled. Not the smile that's warm, inviting or friendly. It wasn't even an imitation of any of these. It was a threat. A threat Lestrade understood immediately. He rose from the chair and stood awkwardly beside it. John's menacing smile faded and he moved his gaze to the window.
Soft notes of Sherlock's violin played and once again he felt as if he was drowning, being suffocated by the sudden introduction of memories.
"Would you stop playing the bloody thing?" John shouted angrily only to be met with a confused look from both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.
"Pardon me?"
It was only then that John remembered the music was in his mind, embedded inside him. The track continued to play and the memories followed suit.
"Oh never mind." John said annoyed that they wouldn't be able to drop it, as he anticipated their next question. Or stream of questions. John saw their lips moving but didn't care to listen to what they were saying. He tuned them out and soon pretending to be listening grew tiresome as well. He looked back out the window and the notes played louder. Might as well embrace it. was the first thought, soon followed by Yes, please do. Embrace it. Because that worked out so well the last time.
Suddenly he could feel the burn of the bile coming up his throat, the burn of the fire in his heart, the burn of his eyes from the tears.
His sight moved to the skull on the mantel. Oh much better. The sarcasm fluidly flowing through all his remarks.
After going through nearly every object in the flat within view he decided the only thing not connected to Sherlock was a certain square of carpet near the door. He was able to focus on that for a while but soon the fact that it was the only part of the apartment that was untouched and unconnected made it connected. He couldn't move his mind away from why he didn't connect Sherlock with it. Soon his gaze was adverted again as he finally started hearing Lestrade shout his name.
He came out of the fog he was unknowingly in and was once again annoyed.
"What could you possibly want?" He spat. The both of them stood emotionless and silent. The room was silent. Silence. John groaned and tried to find the tune that had been stuck in his head. It had vanished. What had Sherlock said about the average brain's memory? Forty percent or something like that. John smirked and chuckled at the irony. He shook his head violently, the smirk long gone. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson watched in a terrified awe. John stood up and grabbed his cane. He began to march out the door when he stopped and hobbled over to the fridge. He pushed aside all the condiments and cartons until he got to the hidden jar of toes. He smiled happily, proud that he had been able to keep this hidden from Mrs. Hudson. He held it under his arm and hobbled out the door. Not saying another word
John rhythmically shifted his weight with the cane as he made his way towards the cemetery. Shockingly no cab would take him with a jar of toes in his hand. He thought nothing of it; he assumed the world was just out to get him as he continued on. The chill of the air comforted him. He could smell the chill. The cold air, the freshness the wetness of the pavement from the mist and late night drizzle, it surrounded him and he finally enjoyed the sensation of air rushing into his lungs. His steps were quick, as he didn't really need the cane when he was distracted.
What was he even doing? He wanted to know. Some part of him knew, but whether it was lack of interest or an abundance of laziness he didn't bother to figure it out. The last stretch of the walk was uphill; John awaited it eagerly. His pace quickened, unintentionally racing with the memory of his friend with a fast gate.
His breath came out in puffs of smoke as he reached the top. He walked through the wrought iron gates and followed the paved path until he reached the section he desired. He walked up the rows without thinking. He had the path memorized. Though he only consciously remembered visiting three times, he knew he must be a regular as one of the lawns men tipped his hat in addition to his own stealth in reaching the grave.
The dark marble stone stared at him, his own reflection shocking him a bit. The bold white letters Sherlock Holmes stared back at him as well. John smiled sadly. He placed the jar of toes next to the headstone.
"Merry Bloody Christmas." John mocked though he wasn't truly sure of what month it was, only that it was cold.
It was silent again and John refused to stand it.
"You know, I understand that you're dead and all but I'm pretty sure that if you were alive you wouldn't answer me anyway, so would you mind throwing me a bone?" he paused a moment this time letting the silence overwhelm him. He felt that this time the silence was actually a response.
"You're an ass." John proclaimed to the headstone. "You were Sherlock Holmes, the man with superior intellect, yet here you are dead. Bloody wonderful job. So much for being the greatest consulting detective the world has ever known." John could hear Sherlock correcting, "Excuse me, you were the ONLY consulting detective therefore you were of course the greatest. How do you fancy that deduction, Sherlock?"
The silence ensued, only irritating John further. "Hey, if you were so bloody smart, how was it that you weren't able to deduce the fact that I was in love with you? Oh wait you probably did, you just didn't care enough to recognize it." John cursed trying to be angry, to hide the sadness that overwhelmed him.
He sat down tiredly in the wet grass and sighed. "You know, I was going to kill myself this morning, Sherlock? The only reason I didn't is because I honestly didn't care either way. I thought you'd come to save me, though, like we always do for each other. Sherlock, I meant what I said earlier this morning, if you were listening." John awaited the dreaded silence.
"I'm always listening, John."