Twisted Black by AndromedaMarine
Three
The doctor spent the rest of the day texting Mycroft and moving his and Sherlock's things into boxes. Granted, with Sherlock's gracious help the process took half as long as it would have otherwise, and it was already creeping past noon when John remembered that Mrs. Hudson had briefly seen Sherlock that morning. Although John wanted rather selfishly to keep Sherlock to himself for as long as he could, it wasn't in his nature to do something of the sort. So he paused in the middle of organizing a book box and squinted at the door.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked from the desk, where he could be heard rustling through old case files and deciding which ones would be interesting enough for John to blog about. He lifted one folder and opened it, peering at the contents with scrutiny.
"It's just…well, Mrs. Hudson saw you this morning. I forgot about it till just now, but don't you think she wants to talk to you?"
"Yes, I imagine she would. Go and fetch her, then." Sherlock discarded the folder and picked up another.
John eyed him. "You won't disappear?"
Sherlock glanced over and smirked. "No, in fact I will prepare some tea for the three of us."
John felt stable enough to laugh at this, if just for a moment, before he got to his feet and went to find Mrs. Hudson. As he descended the staircase he heard Sherlock pad from the desk to the kitchen, and the faint clink of china drifted down to John's ears. The army doctor felt the corners of his lips quirk up in response to this, and the smile remained as he knocked softly on his landlady's door.
It took her a few moments with her bad hip to come open it, but when saw John standing there with a small grin on his face she clutched at her heart again. "Is he—is he really—oh, John," she stuttered, and then John stepped forward to pull Mrs. Hudson into a much-needed hug.
"Yes, he's really up there."
"But he's got wings!"
At this John's smile faltered, and he stepped back from Mrs. Hudson, keeping his hands on her slight shoulders. "He's an angel, Mrs. Hudson. He's only here to help me move on." His voice had dropped to a quiet, sad tone. "Would you like to talk to him?"
"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, patting her hands on the waist of her dress.
John smiled again and led Mrs. Hudson up to the flat where Sherlock had just poured the steaming water into three teacups.
At the sounds of two sets of feet climbing the staircase, Sherlock turned to face the entrance, rustling his wings a bit in anticipation. Mrs. Hudson was first through the door, and she stopped so suddenly at the sight of him that John almost ran into her. She didn't speak, only stood there with one hand resting over her heart and the other drawn up to cover her mouth. Her eyes spoke volumes, more than they had that morning at the surprise visit.
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock acknowledged kindly. He held out his hand to her, and she hesitated before taking it. Sherlock drew her into an embrace and didn't mind that he could feel her tears seeping through his royally purple shirt. She clung to him weakly, her veiny hands clutching at the back of his suit jacket, brushing underneath the feathers bordering his spine.
John hovered in the doorway, his eyes filling at the sight. He quickly brushed the drops away, and slid past the angel and the landlady to pick up one of the mugs on the counter. He then proceeded to carefully ignore his companions and, tea in hand, John Watson drifted over to look out the window. The sky gloomed grey overhead, threatening rain, and for a brief moment John wondered what it would be like solving cases with a winged Sherlock Holmes.
He remembered the sharp, cold air at the cemetery the day he'd come home to find the angel standing at this very window, the chills that traveled down his spine as he limped away from the tombstone, and the thin, small, wet blades of grass that were just beginning to poke through the soil covering the casket containing his friend. As John watched the bustle of Baker Street below the flat he felt a hand tightening and twisting over his heart, and though he knew Sherlock stood only a few paces away, it still felt like a deep, dark, abyss separated their souls. And, indeed, there was.
The inquisitive voice of Mrs. Hudson asking why there were so many boxes littering the floor pulled John from his black thoughts. He turned to face the other two, and took a sip of the tea. "I can't stay here," he said softly to his elderly landlady when she came over to grasp his free hand with both of hers. "It's too…" he glanced up at Sherlock, who stood by the kitchen table with wings neatly folded and his hands clasped gently around his own cup. "It's too painful. He's here to help me move on, and I can't do that if I stay in a place where everything reminds me of him."
Mrs. Hudson patted his arm and gave him a sad smile. "Thank you for letting me say goodbye," she told him softly.
The three tenants of 221 Baker Street visited for another hour, each one delicately nursing the tea Sherlock had kindly made.
It took two days for John to meet with Mycroft and begin the move. Sherlock stayed at Baker Street during this process, and retreated into his old room when John told him that Lestrade was coming to help him get boxes over to the new, smaller flat in Bromley, across the Thames. John asked whether or not Greg would be able to see Sherlock, and though Sherlock knew he would, he shook his head no. It wasn't time for Lestrade to see him.
By week's end the boxes were moved and unpacked, the Stradivarius on its stand by the window with the binder of sheet music perched carefully beside it. The skull now resided on the mantle of John's new, larger fireplace, and a collection of old knives from Sherlock's bedroom were now in a display case above the sofa. Small reminders of his former life, and not so much that every glance across the flat caused his eyes to well up.
When John last stepped from 221B Baker Street with Sherlock beside him and Martha Hudson waving goodbye, Mycroft's black limousine pulled up to the curb. John and Sherlock climbed in, Sherlock more carefully because his wings were far more and larger than the limo was meant to transport. No one else sat in the back, and the divider between the driver and the passenger seating was already up. John wondered if Mycroft had cameras installed back here, and whether or not Sherlock in all his winged glory would appear on the footage. He decided he didn't care either way, and before long found himself leaning up against Sherlock's sturdy shoulder. The detective gently lifted his arm a bit, and John was able to fall into a half-embrace and close his eyes. Neither man said a word when his hand found Sherlock's.
John made tea for them both at the Bromley flat.
"When do you want to see Mycroft and Lestrade?" he asked quietly, setting the steaming cup in front of his dead best friend.
Sherlock remained silent for a few beats before replying, "Tomorrow. But it will be the only time. Every day after that will be ours, and only ours."
Mycroft stood stiffly with his umbrella for several seconds, staring at his winged brother, before dropping it and giving Sherlock the first hug they'd shared in years. The elder Holmes tried to apologize for keeping both the will and his involvement in Sherlock's grand plan from the army doctor, but John only shook his head in silent forgiveness, knowing that at month's end the will would be executed and since the angel had already divulged Mycroft's participation and subsequent remorse, apologies were entirely unnecessary.
Lestrade asked if it was all a great big joke at first, but when Sherlock deduced that he'd spent the past few weeks living with Molly and taking extra shifts at the Yard to work his way back up to where he'd been during the Reichenbach Fall, Greg had a hard time finding his voice. He spent a good deal longer visiting than Mycroft had, and when it came time for him to leave he told John he was almost done clearing Sherlock's name, and that if he wanted a post at the Yard he need only ask. Sherlock did not pull back when Greg drew the angel into a hug farewell.
The month drifted by on slow wings. They were able to walk through Bromley without anyone noticing John's winged companion, and they would sit for long hours in the park talking about life, or not talking at all. They spent one afternoon on the floor in the flat, John running his hands over Sherlock's wings, cataloguing every detail, every texture, every feeling in his own crude version of Sherlock's Mind Palace. When he moved on from the wings to run one hand and then both through Sherlock's dark, springy curls, Sherlock found himself enjoying the sensation, and felt he should return the favor. John did not object.
He didn't pretend to ignore the look in Sherlock's eyes when John decided to catalogue Sherlock's exact scent. "If I'm going to survive this, I'm going to need to remember you," he whispered as he held Sherlock in a tight embrace, his nose pressed against the smooth skin of the angel's neck. He breathed in deep, clinging to the detective with a desperate strength, unable and unwilling to hide his anguish over his impending second loss. He knew the coming months would not be kind to him.
John slept with Sherlock wrapped around him, safely cocooned in his arms and wings, neither wishing nor asking for more than what it was.
"You're my oxygen," he mumbled into Sherlock's ear at one point, during a period of several hours where John tried to make more than a few convincing arguments that Sherlock staying would be better than any alternative, and refused to spend more than a few seconds without some part of the winged detective against his body. "I need you like I need air." Sherlock found it hard to remain both silent and composed during those hours.
Sherlock fought with himself not to give in to the urge to flit back up to heaven and bargain with Seraphiel for another month, another year, another lifetime in which he could be with and protect John from the demons and devils of the day Sherlock fell. He drew comfort from the nights spent with John held against his chest, committing the memories to John's annex of his Mind Palace so he could immerse himself in them during the coming long months and years when John would be living on without him. He wondered how quickly time would pass for him in heaven as it inched along on earth, and whether the years for John would feel like years to him. He suspected it might feel like eons instead, as any time apart from John Watson made his silent heart ache.
John promised he would only visit the grave on the anniversaries and birthdays, but they both knew he would come after nightmares and danger nights too.
With a week to go, John cried and yelled that it wasn't fair. He raged and eventually collapsed beneath the Stradivarius, and after Sherlock manhandled him onto the sofa John spent the rest of that evening floating along with the music Sherlock so expertly drew from the smooth wood and taut strings of the violin. He played the last complete composition he'd written while alive, the only one that he'd written entirely for John because it was the only way he felt he could express his emotion without fumbling for words.
The two men—angel and mortal—spent the last night of Sherlock's sojourn holding each other on John's bed. John wept silently, fighting sleep, forgetting that he was meant to be letting go of this beautiful creature and stay alive for the both of them. He could feel his heart twisting and breaking inside his chest.
Sherlock tipped his head down and gently kissed John's forehead for the first, last, and only time before he drew the older man tighter against his body and whispered in his ear, his voice low and rumbling with love and regret, "Goodbye, my John."
When he faded away at Big Ben's stroke of midnight, John curled up with his arms wrapped around his stomach, and cried himself to sleep for the last time.
Six years passed during which John held a small but paid position with New Scotland Yard and DI Lestrade. Six years of slowly easing heartache, increasingly infrequent visits to the cemetery, occasional meetings with Mycroft, and weekly cups of tea with Mrs. Hudson on Sunday afternoons. They would reminisce about the fleeting month with their beautiful, angular angel, sighing at the end of their memories, and never letting a tear fall because they both knew Sherlock didn't want that. He felt as if even though the angel Sherlock Holmes had long since faded away into nothingness, his presence still lingered at his shoulder, guiding him on the path to renewal, and gently easing his mind from nightmares when the sun went to sleep.
Yet with all his steps forward, John Watson smiled when he watched his doctor step into the examining room with a bleak expression on his face.
I can go home.
"I'm sorry, John." Dr. Ferrimey spoke softly.
It's all right. It's all fine. I can go home now.
"Well? How long do I have?" Should I even pretend to be distraught?
Ferrimey sat heavily on the stool. He flipped open the folder and simply handed it to his former colleague. "If we start treatment today, there's a chance you'll respond favorably. But this is a rare one, John. I've only ever seen a handful of cases, and none were caught this late."
John read the report with a doctor's eye, picking out the words and mildly wondering what he'd tell Martha and Greg the next day. He closed the folder and handed it back. John clasped his hands together. "We both know your 'chance' means less than ten percent," he chided.
Ferrimey rubbed a hand over his face. "You're still young, John."
At this, he snorted. "Petyr, I'm just shy of fifty. Look me in the eye and tell me that every other patient with this was older than I am now."
John's doctor looked away and sighed again in surrender. "When do you want to start the chemo?"
"I don't," John replied simply. He watched Petyr's face morph in confusion.
"You don't—John, what?"
John shrugged. "I've been stumbling along for seven years, Petyr, waiting for an excuse, for a chance to go back home." Petyr swallowed, and opened his mouth to reply, but John cut him off. "So, how long?"
"At the best, six months. At the worst…John, you're sick. At the worst you'll be gone in a month. You need to be staying with someone…someone who can bring you in once you can't handle it by yourself. It will get bad, John."
"Only for some," John said mildly. "All I ask is that once Mycroft brings me in give me whatever you need to in order to make it as painless as possible. I'm not frightened by this, Petyr. I've been living on borrowed time for the past six years anyway." John had never told Petyr Ferrimey of the month with his angel—only that for a period of time after his best friend's death he'd been so very close to following Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, John," Petyr repeated after he stood and rested a comforting hand on his patient's left shoulder.
John looked up at him, the hint of a smile on his lips. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Petyr."
The doctor gave him one last, long look, and then left the room.
Seven weeks later Mycroft found John in one of the bathrooms of Holmes Manor, clinging to the toilet, pale, shaking, and thin. Mycroft saw the red tint in the vomit, and knew the time had come. He wordlessly helped John stand and clean up, and led him back to the room where, for the past month and a half, John had been living. It used to be Sherlock's childhood bedroom, massive and elegant, walls adorned with classic paintings and the framed score of an early copy of Handel's Messiah. Once Mycroft had John back in the bed, with blankets and the duvet pulled over him, the elder Holmes retreated to the hallway and phoned the hospital staff, informing them of the need to present themselves at once with the morphine for which John had asked.
Mycroft Holmes, the direct epitome of England itself, would make sure that John's last moments were spent within the walls of a room so achingly Sherlock. He knew without question what the two men had meant to each other, and he'd be damned if he let the old army doctor spiral into oblivion within the white confines of a Spartan hospital room.
John asked for Sherlock seven times that night, and mistook poor Mycroft for his brother at least twice when he dragged a chair beside the bed to sit and keep vigil. Greg Lestrade and Martha Hudson came in the morning, Lestrade with the Stradivarius and Martha with the skull. They stayed for hours, watching as John drifted further and further into blackness, feeling the twist in their guts that felt both terrible and wonderful at the same time.
He's almost home.
Mycroft played the violin with less skill than Sherlock had, but well enough that with the sheets of compositions from the Bromley flat that Martha had given him he could play one of Sherlock's originals for John. And so Sherlock's brother played, oblivious to the fact that the music was the exact piece Sherlock had teased from the violin's strings the week before he drifted away. As the music flowed over them, Mycroft could see the tension in John's face slip away as the sick doctor slowly fell asleep to the comforting, achingly familiar music. Martha kissed John's forehead and left the room after three minutes of the swirling music, tears in her eyes. Greg lasted almost fifteen minutes longer, and when he left he looked Mycroft long in the eye, unspoken understanding passing between them that John would not hold on for much longer.
He slipped away two nights later. Mycroft held his hand in the last hours, quietly whispering stories about his and Sherlock's childhood, shamelessly letting the tears fall for both John and his long departed brother.
They held the funeral after four days. Mycroft paid for it all, making sure the burial plot lay right next to Sherlock's. He even paid to have Sherlock's headstone replaced to match John's, listing them both as dearly beloved brothers, sons, and soulmates. Anthea stood silent and beautiful beside Mycroft, there because she too had loved John Watson. Harry arrived with her and John's parents, sober for once. Lestrade came with Molly, Martha, and even Sarah Sawyer, and half the Yarders showed up to pay their respects to both men buried beneath the lonely tree. Some apologized, some thanked them for deeds done and cases solved, and every mourner shed tears.
Mycroft, the last to leave the gravesite, quietly sent Anthea back to the car. She hesitated only for a moment, briefly resting her hand on the forearm of his immaculate suit jacket. Mycroft, not watching his assistant leave, leaned on his umbrella with an expression on his face that hadn't been there since his mother died. He stared at the twin markers, thinking about having the statue of an angel commissioned to look over the reunited duo.
"You two definitely loved each other," Mycroft uttered, his features drawn and weary. "Anyone could've seen that. And I know you two did as well…even if it took a while." He felt his throat constrict and he coughed to clear it, taking his eyes off the stone slabs to cast his gaze across the field of the dead. "There are many things I'm sorry about. Many things I wish I could go back and tweak to change their outcomes. Things I should have told you both…and other things I never should have said." He looked back down at the fresh earth. "It's a small comfort that you're both together now, instead of wasting away apart."
The British government took a deep, steadying breath, and gave a stiff salute to them. He left then, and only stopped when he knew another step would take him out of sight of the lonely tree.
When Mycroft took one last look over his shoulder at the graves, he forever swore that he could see the angel Sherlock Holmes in the tight embrace of the angel John Watson, both watching him, their wings drawing elegant, crystalline lines in the air around them. Mycroft gazed at them for several seconds, but when he blinked to rid his eyes of the tears that gathered there, the two angels had vanished, and Mycroft Holmes knew he would not see them again.
And when he spoke his last words to them, he said them softly.
"Look after each other, now."