CW for references to blood, vague suicidal ideation, violence, strange imagery
John slowly rises through the darkness, the light breaking through the waters of his mind. He feels the touch of pale fingers on his skin, cool air flowing over his throat as he moans softly. He opens his bleary eyes, his gaze fluttering over the ceiling before landing on Sherlock, hovering over him. He stares at Sherlock's gleaming eyes as they lock on his. "I can't believe you're here."
Sherlock's mouth curls in a tiny smile. "You can."
"I'm dreaming."
"You're not."
"Am I dead? I always hoped I'd see you again when I died."
"No, John. You're not dead." Sherlock presses their clasped hands to his own heart, his steady pulse beating through John's fingers. "And I'm not dead. I am very much alive. I'm here, John." The silken words fill the empty air. "I'm here."
John looks at their interlocked hands, pale skin woven with tanned. Carefully, John reaches up with his free hand and cups Sherlock's face, mapping the contours of his skin. His fingers trail over his soft eyelashes, crest over the curves of ears, slip through the tangles of short, raven curls, caress the shiny, smooth scar on his temple, down over his shoulders and clavicle, settling on his arm; all the while, his blue eyes shimmering.
Suddenly, John grabs Sherlock tight, pulling him down against him. He clutches Sherlock hard enough to draw bruises, pressing his hands against his skin as if trying to imprint his fingerprints on his flesh, to feel Sherlock's blood well to the surface with the evidence of life. His chest shakes with slippery, hiccuping sobs, the cry of a man who thought himself trapped forever in the sodden, diseased trenches of grief. "I thought I was dead...I was dying...I promised myself I wouldn't die, I didn't want you to see me like this. I wanted to see you again, I wanted to, but I promised I'd just hold on because maybe things would get better." He gulps down huge lungfuls of air, as if surfacing from a long, crushing dive underwater. "I promised...I couldn't...God help me, Sherlock, I couldn't do this without you, I couldn't..." His words tumble from his mouth, loose and collapsing like a jumbled marionette.
Sherlock makes little susurrus sounds as he clutches John's hand, his baritone voice washing over him like a soothing, rich balm. John's limp body floats, his head spinning, full of cotton and wool and the dizzying smell of Sherlock's sweat. "I don't...I don't understand. How...?" The question trails off like a curl of smoke.
Sherlock's eyes flit away, down towards their hands, then back to John's face. His body suddenly tenses under John's gaze, his fingers tightening as he sucks in a deep breath. "I lied."
Sherlock's words cut through John's swirling mind, leaving a ragged blade of wake behind. "What? What do you mean?"
"I had to—I couldn't—I had to do this. To keep you safe."
"Had to do what?"
"Disappear. Disturb everything I've ever known. Disgust you. Deceive you."
Something hot unfurls in John's chest, a smoldering, tiny coal of anger buried in the ashes of his soul for years, suddenly sparked alight. "Deceive me?" He pulls away from Sherlock and props himself up on his elbows. The boundaries of his skin, once stretching with elation to the end of the universe, snap back to a hard, dense core, ready for another Big Bang. "Why? What are you talking about?"
Sherlock pulls in another breath, the words coming out waterlogged. "I wasn't dead. And you couldn't know. Or else I would get you killed."
John shakes his head, the muscles of his neck tightening like industrial springs as his hands curl into shaking fists, the coal burning orange in the center of his chest. "You did what?" His eyes grow wide in understanding, his breath rising hard and fast in his throat until it becomes a hysterical pant. "You were alive, all this time? And you never told me..." Sherlock manages only a small, swallowed nod, his eyes dull and rusted. "You were alive, and I was here, and I couldn't even, and you—"
Suddenly, John pushes himself away from Sherlock, skittering across the floor on his hands, knocking into the wall. "I trusted you. I...you..." His face flushes as the coal catches fire, setting his body aflame. He gapes at Sherlock, watching the man's face melt into a straight line of something that looks like remorse. "You..." Body still woozy from his faint, he stands up and limps toward the stairs, leaving his cane behind, rushing away from the man who sucked all the air from the hall, from the flat, from his body for three years.
Sherlock rises and darts after him, standing at the bottom of the stairs. "John, I can explain—"
John wheels around in the stairway, eyes glowing with fire and trembling with water, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. "I can't." The words are razors in his throat. "I can't." He stumbles up the steps to his flat, fumbles with his keys, unlocks the door and slams it shut, facing the dull, beige emptiness of his room. His eyes flit from side to side, his gaze flicking from the single mug on the kitchen counter and the barren, blank walls to the black marble urn beside his bed.
Limping to the nightstand, he picks up the urn and cradles it in his hands, the warmth of Sherlock's body fading from his flesh into the cold stone. As he stares at their names, scratched and dug into the marble, his hands start to shake, the fierce magma of his pain erupting in a terrible, aching scream, and with all his strength he hurls the urn across the room. The urn slams against the door, the force cracking the lid in two, an explosion of bone billowing through the air. Falling to the floor, he begins to weep, hot tears and grey ash blurring his vision. Slowly, he crawls on his hands and knees to the scattered remains. He rights the urn again, scooping the ashes back inside, then collapses against the door, pressing the urn to his chest.
The world around him unravels like a loose jumper thread caught on a nail, the past three years of his life disintegrating until he sits naked and alone among the ruins, weeping into the dry bones. Something black and searing pours from his heart as he cries, emptying his soul of everything but fire and oxygen and The Lie. The wrongness of his being wrenches a hole in the universe, his body a half-step out of time, all the days of peace he could have had spilling over his hands like blood as he screams in ragged, horrible sobs, tears into his skin until it bleeds, until there is nothing but the red flame, burning him alive.
AN: Thanks for Mirith Griffin for being my BetaGoddess and for the idea re: John smashing Sherlock's urn. Thanks to my various Tumblrfolk for their energy and support. And thanks to you for reading.
The title references a lyric from Shearwater's "Black Eyes." Sherlock's "I lied" references a line from SkipandDi's amazing Reichenbach fic, (Life is) A Series of Risks. Visual inspiration for John touching Sherlock's face comes from the Celie and Nettie reunion scene from The Color Purple.
