Lightning
"I lie awake alle nyght." – Troilus, 14th century, The Withe Papers
John stands at the edge of the gritty, windswept roof, looking down into the rain-filled gutters of a sodden London night.
"You'll catch cold, standing out here," says a low voice from behind him.
"Probably," he agrees. A shivering breeze whips around him, pausing to pry under his upturned collar. He ignores it.
The owner of the voice draws closer. "Come back inside, John."
"I'd rather stay out here, if you don't mind."
"John."
Unwillingly, he turns and looks at her.
Molly, her long hair swept into a smooth chignon, slender and fragile in a silvery gown, is smiling sadly, so sadly it is as if her face has been painted on by a clown. "Please, John. I can call a cab for you if you want to go, but don't stay up here."
"I'll walk." He steps towards the exit, lowering his head against the growing wind. "I'm fine, Molly. You should go back to the party."
"John," she pleads, but he walks faster. "John – oh, fine. Be careful. Please."
"I will."
He doesn't stop. He shoves a hand against the doorjamb; it crashes open, and he jogs down the stairs, moving faster and faster until he is almost running. Three flights down, two flights, one. He's out. The cool night air breaks over his face, runs fingers down his spine; cold puddles splash around his feet as he strides down the deserted sidewalk.
A cab pulls up next to him in a screech of brakes, hopeful, but he waves it on.
As he draws closer to the flat, a cascade of fireworks shoots up into the night sky, streaming lines of glowing colour expanding in a glassy sheen over the stars. Families pour out of their houses, running into the streets, pointing, smiling, gasping with excitement, fascination, joy.
"Happy New Year!"
"Happy New Year to you!"
John weaves through them all, his head down, ignoring the bright shattering globes overhead, ignoring the pounding thrum of gunpowder, his gaze fixed on his feet. Five more minutes and he'll be alone again.
Even now his limp is still gone.
Boom.
He walks faster, but the sound pursues him.
Boom. Boom.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…
Boom.
He breaks into a staggering run.
Then the door of his rented flat looms up at him, swings open under his hand, and he goes in, turns the bolt. He falls into the fold-up chair by the rickety heater and drops his head into his hands. The silence he'd thought would be welcoming settles around him in a dull, stifling blanket.
Unable to sit still, he stands and crosses to the tiny kitchen, fumbles the refrigerator door open.
He hadn't eaten anything at the party.
He dimly remembers Lestrade watching him from the buffet table, worry lines etched around his mouth and eyes, his hair greyer than before. Molly had come to stand next to the DI, balancing a tiny plate of untouched pastries and cubes of fruit, her eyes flickering uncomfortably from Lestrade to John.
Anderson and Sally had turned next, their pointed faces bobbing among the crowd, watching him from the corners of their eyes.
John had put down his full glass of water and made for the roof, sidling between the drunken, merry police officers, friends of Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson. He slid sideways through a door rendered nearly invisible by a crush of undulating bodies, closed it soundlessly behind him. The stairs lay before him like a pathway to the moon.
He'd climbed up, come to stand on the roof, watching the night sky. His eyes had wandered from the hazy stars to the street below.
And then Molly had found him.
He takes a container of orange juice out of the fridge. Molly – he isn't angry with her. He knows she only wants to help him. But he doesn't want help. Not now. He's too raw; the tearing wound is too new.
He raises the paper cup of orange juice to the peeling ceiling.
"Happy New Year, Sherlock."
It has been six and a half months since his best friend's death.
"I'm a fake."
John sits on the edge of his sagging bed, his fingers poised over the dusty keyboard.
"Nobody could be that clever."
He closes his eyes.
"Goodbye, John."
Where the magic had been electric and whirring in the marrow of his bones, coursing through his arms and hands, fierce and powerful and free, there is nothing but a lifeless current of stolid, immovable stone. He can't reach for it. He can't even feel it.
He is numb.
He opens his eyes and looks at the bare white screen of his laptop. He does not write.
Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two weeks pass, and John is sitting in a small cafe with Lestrade, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He is laughing; in this moment all lines are gone from his face, and his eyes are lit and squinting and carefree.
"No," he gasps, "no, you didn't say that."
Lestrade grimaces, and then grins self-deprecatingly. "I did. Poor Molly. My first try at asking her out, and I can't even be bothered to do it properly. She must have thought I was a total idiot."
John shrugs, still giggling. "Well, at least you've managed to keep her around for two whole weeks. My last girlfriend – well, let's just say it was a lot shorter than that."
"Women," Lestrade says, shaking his head with an air of complete incomprehension. "You're a good catch, John. You just wait and see."
"Right," John says, but he's doubtful. "So what's this about your new case, then? Something to do with stolen army rifles?"
"Yes, and we have no leads. You want to come in on Monday and see if you notice anything? I'll give you the file now, if you want."
John agrees, and Lestrade, reassured, leans back in his chair to pull the file from his briefcase. It is a sunny day. Overhead, pigeons swoop in awkward, endearing flights to grab crumbs from nearby tables and chairs. John can't quite put his finger on it, but something has relaxed in his chest. He breathes in the crisp air of spring and looks out at the busy street.
It is one of the first days Sherlock's absence hasn't pained him.
He's walking through the cemetery at midnight, alone and unseen under the brittle, distant stars, reading Lestrade's file and eating a pastry, when his magic rushes up through his legs and cuts all breath in his lungs.
The file and the nibbled pastry fall from his hands.
John drops to his knees in the damp grass, struggling for air. His left arm pulls itself away from him, moving of its own accord; his fingers uncurl and extend straight out.
Magic unwinds from his fingertips, all five of his fingertips, spinning outward like string on a flying kite's spool, and he can breathe again. Blue ribbons, dark deep blue, a blue so much darker than Sherlock's light-coloured streamers, spiral away into the night, whirling over the tombstones, darting between winged statues and massive stone archways.
"What the –"
He clutches at his left arm, trying to draw it back. The magic unspooling from his hand sends tremors up and down his body, makes his heart shiver in his chest. The sensation is appalling, but John knows what it is.
His Anchor is still alive.
The shock of his supposed death had sent John's magic into hiding, but now it is back.
Sherlock is alive.
As the magic flickers away into the night, vanishing into dimly glittering dust borne on the wind, John pulls his arm back against his chest. He closes his eyes against the sudden tears; forces himself to breathe deeply, to calm his stuttering heart.
Sherlock is alive.
He gets up, looks into the distance where the ribbons had flown. Southwest.
Carefully, he stoops and picks up Lestrade's file, leaves the pastry, and sets off through the tombstones.
He'll wait a day. Maybe half.
And then he will go find him.
A/N: I hope the happy ending to this chapter alleviates the angst throughout the rest of it :). I'm sorry, though; I tell you, it was as hard to write as it is to read.
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And to warn you in advance, the next chapter will be the last one for this story.
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