The rain rained on John Watson. He didn't care. The water soaked through his jacket, and through his skin, and through his heart, and into his very soul. He did not care. Being cold and wet was nothing that he didn't deserve. He had seen war, and famine, and pain, and yet nothing quite compared to the gut wrenching realisation that he had abandoned his closest freind. And after all the effort that Sherlock had invested into being there for him- he'd just abandoned the poor man.
By the time he'd made it to the end of the road, tears were clouding his vision to the extent that everything was just one big blur, blotted with the colours of traffic lights, and passing cars. Turning the corner, it was all John could do to stagger into the corner and sink to his knees. It was not like him to cry. Curling up in a ball, and pulling his jacket over his head in a vague bid to fend off the rain. Not that it mattered, of course. Rain was rain was rain. Tiime would pass. Water would dry. Life would fade. Time would pass. Water would dry. Life would fade. Life does that. Life is fleeting, and pointless. Life is cruel. Life is shit. Life took Harry.
There is nothing quite like losing a sibling. We might fight, we might get mad, we might pretend to hate each other, but we never have anything quite like our siblings. People who do not have a sibling will probably never understand. There is nothing on the planet that irritates us more than our brothers and sisters, which is why it is such a shock when one is taken away. When Harry died, the colour faded. Life was a rich tapestry, overflowing with colour and splendour, and when Harry had gone, the threads had snapped- colour had been dropped from the loom, and now was gone forever too. Tears burst forth from John's tired, red eyes, and he grabbed onto his knees, rocking forward in his agony. He did not sob- for he never forgot himself, never through all the pain, was even one molecule of him no longer John. Every particle of him was absolutley John, it was merely that the particles no longer held together. He was drifting- everything was drifting, and only one tiny thought held him to the spot he was on.
SHERLOCK
The thought did not stop the pain, nor did it lessen it by any means. He just had the thought, and that was enough. He was drifting, but he wouldn't drift too far. Because there was Sherlock.
Time would pass.
Water would dry.
Life would fade.
Life does that.
Life is fleeting, and pointless.
Life is cruel.
Life is shit.
Life took Harry.
Harry was gone. But the world didn't care. People walked past John, and they didn't even glance! Why did the sun come up this morning? Why is that bloody Chris Moyles still presenting his radio show? Why are people still living? Why are people still talking? Why are people still laughing? Why is the world still spinning?
Why doesn't the world care that Harry's gone!
Because Harry didn't matter.
It was such a cruel thing to think, but John knew it was true. Nobody mattered to the world. The world doesn't care who lives or dies. That's why we find people who care about us, people who we matter to. Because if we matter to anybody, then we matter a little. And a little is a damnsight closer to a lot than you might think.
Sherlock made John matter.
John needed to show Sherlock that he made him matter too.
So he sealed off the wound in his heart, and went to make a man matter.
"Here." said John. "I got you some coffee..." He placed the take-out, cardboard, coffee cup on the arm of Sherlock's chair. The consulting detective looked up at John, his shallow, yet oddly mesmerising eyes unfocused on the doctor's face.
" How kind of you" he said- in a manner that suggested that he was not quite all there, only speaking to aknowledge English plesantries. "Where did you get the money? You don't have your wallet."
"I'm not even going to ask how you know that. Some woman gave it to me on the street- thought I was a homeless guy."
"Well why did she think that?" Sherlock said, appearing suddenly to click back into reality,
"Because... because I was having a bit of a breakdown on the corner, okay? Look, it doesn't matter. The point is, I'm here for you. You were here for me, so now I'm here for you. C'mon, let's go and see your brother. I know he needs you."
"No" Said Sherlock, curtly.
John was literally speechless. He just stood there, gaping. It took him a while to remember to function.
"How? How can you not want to see your sibling at a time like this?"
"We've never been close. I don't see why you expect me to care so much, really. I don't need you to be here for me. The coffee's nice though." He said, with a smirk.
John found rage building up insade of him- like a great flood through his body. Sherlock seemed genuinley not to care- a suggestion utterly inconceivable to John. How could you be fine, how could you not care, when your sibling was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life? It was something a man as good and kind as John, simply could not comprehend. And to reject his help, after all the effot he'd invested in getting up off that street corner- that was something that cut him deep.
Looking at Sherlocks eyes, he was no longer mesmerised. There was nothing but cold, shallow, clinical grey in those eyes, and when they met each others, he could feel the tears welling up within his own.
He spoke two sentences. They were short and simple, but his voice still quavered in the middle.
"I knew you weren't perfect, Sherlock. But I never had you down as heartless."
Then he drew back his arm, and punched the man square in the face, hard as he could. Then he left. He did not look back.
But if he had.
He would have seen, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes break down, and cry.
