Chapter Summary: Sherlock and John each end up hurting each other in ways they never intended to do.
Warnings: There is angst in this chapter, but I resolve MOST of it by the end.
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They ended up going back to the bungalow, but since the Wild Hunt had made it clear they were HOPING that the police or some sort of authority would be contacted, and that it would only help them, they were rather stuck on what to do exactly. The island didn't even HAVE a hospital on the island, the closest one was a two hour airlift away, and that would surely draw attention.
Sherlock wouldn't speak about anything to do with his predicament, he held to John and just basked in his inner light. But John didn't understand that he was Sherlock's now. He kept Sherlock company, but he kept trying to leave . It infuriated Sherlock, because he NEEDED him to stay. When John tried to go out hiking for a whole afternoon Sherlock MADE him stop and forget about anything else except Sherlock. John belonged to Sherlock now, he didn't need to go elsewhere ever again. When John's sister and friend seemed upset about how John was acting, Sherlock made them stop noticing John and just go back and do the things they did before. John's Mother got upset at both of her children acting strangely and that meant Sherlock made her stop noticing them and trying to have her distract John's dad without being too obvious about it, because he was far more observant than Sherlock wanted to deal with at the moment.
But finally, Hamish Watson would not be put off anymore.
"Sherlock we have to get you back to your family, or somewhere you will be safe, you have to tell me who that is."
"I am safe here, with you and John."
"Of course you are, but your family has to be worried sick about you by now, we have to let them know that you're alright, and our family will be leaving in a few days to go back home, so it's best to get this sorted. Doing anything except handing you over to some sort of authority unless you tell me who I can safely contact to come and get you would be kidnapping, do you understand what that means?"
Sherlock hung his head. "Yes."
"Then tell me who you are safe with, who would make sure that the Wild Hunt doesn't get a hold of you again, so that if you leave us you'll be okay."
"My Great Grandmother, or my parents."
"And where are they?"
"At the hotel, the big one at the foot of the volcano, but it won't come to that."
"And why is that?"
He trapped the man in his sharply penetrating gaze. "Because you are going to forget all about my family and your desire to return me to them. I am John's friend and welcome here, you will not separate us. Swear it."
The man's eyes went unfocused and distant before he nodded a reply. "I swear."
"Let John back in, and leave us alone. I'm not going back. Spend time with your wife."
"Alright."
John wandered back in and Sherlock hated seeing the vacant look in John's eye, but couldn't risk him leaving again either. He was Sherlock's, he had to understand that first. He held his arms out to John. "Come here John."
John obediently came and curled into the bed with him and wrapped the blanket around the both of them. Sherlock handed him the book. "Keep reading to me?"
And John nodded and began reading, not stopping except for the occasional sip of water until several hours later.
"I love you John. I'll take such wonderful care of you, you'll see. As soon as you know you're mine, as soon as it becomes your Truth, I won't have to hold you so tightly."
John didn't say anything, merely sat there unprotesting. SHerlock wanted John's smile back, and his warmth. He curled tighter into John's arms. John was so perfectly wonderful, he'd never want to leave once he realized the Truth.
"You don't have to fear me John, I won't hurt you, I'll never hurt you, I'll protect you for as long as you live. You can always call to me. I will never abandon you, I swear it. I will never forsake you, you will never be alone."
Sherlock was half asleep and didn't notice the wasp that was in the room, the wasp that John was tracking steadily with his eyes in silence. The wasp that was now on the bed and crawling towards Sherlock. It registered as harm in his head, and he had been ordered to protect Sherlock from harm. The book slammed down hard, killing it decisively in one blow. The move startled Sherlock, and his eyes grew wide in panic and shock.
"No! John what have you done?! Now they'll know, now they'll find us! Quick! You have to take me out of here, you have to take me far away. Grab me and your stuff and RUN JOHN!"
But John couldn't carry both him and the supplies in his pack and run anywhere. And it was too late anyway. Thanatos and Bisnonna both traveled straight in past the protections he had raised to keep deities out, and a moment later Morpheus was there too, and John and all of his family fell fast asleep. When Thanatos picked John up Sherlock panicked.
"NO! No don't take him away from me please! He's mine! You can't interfere with him, he's mine and it isn't his time! Don't you dare hurt him!"
Thanatos glared at Sherlock. "Hurt him? I am merely setting him on the bed. It is you who have hurt him, him and his entire family. Do you have even the slightest idea of what you have done? If he is woken without his memory altered, the next soul I will be forced to claim is yours Sherlock."
"Because you interrupted, John didn't understand yet, that he's mine, once he does I can let him go."
"No Sherlock! You didn't try to make him understand anything , you enslaved him and his family when they didn't let you have your way. In your heart you KNOW this is wrong. Does this feel right to you? Does this feel harmonious? Would you want him like this the rest of his life? Does his mere presence give you strength like this? You are acting like a leech, a false god, and you disgust me." Thanatos snarled
"I am NOT a false god!"
"You directly interfered with a mortal's free will, you enslaved five peoples minds, and you, a godling of Truth weren't even honest with them about the dangers they thought you were in. What part of that isn't the actions of a false god? And don't you dare try to defend yourself with the excuse that you told them no lies, willful silence can be just as big of a falsehood and you know it. If Morpheus wakes him up now, and he remembers everything you did to him, what cause would he ever have to trust you? What faith could he ever willingly place in you ever again after how you have abused him and those he loves? He would forsake you, and he would have every right to do so. You failed him Sherlock."
Sherlock was sobbing and clutching to John. That wasn't what he had meant to do, that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted John to be with him, but he didn't want to be a false god, he had never wanted to hurt John or his family. He looked to Bisnonna Gaia, she always knew what to do.
"How do I make this right?"
Her smile was sad and disappointed, but her voice was gentle.
"You will release their minds and we will alter their memories, all of their memories. It will be as if you never met. Then, when you are both much older, and ready for it, you can start over again."
"No! No he has to remember he met me, he has to remember as much of the truth as possible, whatever won't hurt him. He's my true devout and already has my mark. Look at his heart! A false memory won't stick, my power won't let it."
Morpheus smiled. "Then we shall simply give him and his family a new truth and use it to write over the old one, and blur or remove the things that aren't necessary to have them remember."
Three hours later the Watson family's memories were wiped of the control, and certain elements of the previous days were erased. When Hamish Watson came in this time, Sherlock stuck to the script, his family keeping a close and watchful eye on him while invisible in the room.
"There must be someone that you trust, someone you know wouldn't betray you and get you back to your family."
"It isn't like you think. The Wild Hunt were hunting me down to fetch me back because I ran away, they wouldn't have dared to hurt me. I run away a lot, when I am bored. I didn't want to get in trouble, I missed a really important dinner that first night when I was supposed to play for the family, ruined my clothes and got hurt. Everyone would have been mad at me. I thought you and John would be in danger from them, especially if they knew you had me and thought you were keeping me from them because I had been gone too long. They are like a special security detail, they take care of any problems that may threaten the family, and can become overzealous in their duties. But I messed up. By now they are probably expecting a ransom call, they'll be on super high alert. You can't just walk in, give me back and expect to leave again. They'll think you're a threat and you will never make it back out the front door. My whole family is holding a reunion and conference, they are literally everywhere, and so are their bodyguards. Spook one and they will all come charging in.
If I say 'mafia' you have a pretty good idea about what I mean when I say that my family is just as rich, influential, widespread, and well connected. They aren't criminally affiliated that I know of, but they can be just as dangerous. They also have very strict rules about children and letting them be young, curious and adventurous for as long as possible. They wouldn't permit any sort of harm to come to John, they wouldn't even really look at him either, they would think he's too young for real trouble. If he stays quiet and polite they won't question his presence no matter where he ends up. He could take me back."
Soon after, Sherlock was being carried in Hamish Watson's arms, set in a car with John, and driven to the hotel at the other side of the island.
It itched under Sherlock's skin, the deceit of it all, but he had no choice, he'd lose John forever otherwise. When they arrived in the parking lot they watched the crowds grouped up in small clusters chatting outside for several minutes.
"There, the old woman in the green and brown sitting on the bench. That is Bisnonna Gaia, my great grandmother, family Matriarch. John, don't rush, just walk towards the front door like you are staying there, go over and take her hand and just whisper ' Bisnonna , Sherlock wants to see you.' and then walk away. She'll follow you without raising a fuss to the others."
John did as asked and Sherlock was returned to his family, but not before Sherlock had thrown his arms around John's neck and given him the biggest tearful hug, thanked him for being wonderful and apologizing for causing trouble. John had hugged him back with a light smile and told him he was happy to help, and even gave Sherlock his phone number and address, maybe they could visit once they were back in England. Sherlock had every intention of doing so.
Sherlock and John became pen pals for awhile and Sherlock even called him a couple of times and basked in the warmth of John's voice. But then something terrible happened that Sherlock hadn't expected. Sherlock would never get another phone call or letter from John Watson.
It was January 15th, 1991 when the Watsons got the news. Hamish David Watson had been killed in action in the Persian Gulf and John felt his insides go cold as their world crashed in around them. He tried, he tried so very hard to keep everyone together, this is what his dad had been training him for, to always be prepared in the face of a crisis, to be strong and stalwart, and never give in, but though Harry clung to him, their mother was lost in her grief. His dad had prepared for everything, life insurance, the funeral costs, even insurance to make sure the house was immediately paid off so they wouldn't have to worry about it.
But nothing could have been done to prepare for his wife to have a mental breakdown due to depression. She was shipped to a mental institution for her own safety, while John and Harry were shipped off to relatives, separate relatives, since no one wanted to take in two kids at once. There was even talk of the relations selling the house in order to cover costs. John refused to let them. It was his family's house. He wouldn't give it up.
John's family was destroyed and there was nothing for him to protect and no one to protect him, and he couldn't stand it. He'd been raised a Christian and was dutifully taken to the church when he asked his aunt to, but the place left him feeling cold and even more empty. What kind of God would do this to them? How could a loving God destroy them with barely a whim, and why? His father had been such a wonderful man, and his mother had been kind and gentle and cared so much, why do this? It was then that the doubts crept in. There wasn't. No benevolent being that cared about anyone would do this to them, which meant that there wasn't a reason behind it, it was just bad luck, and no amount of praying was ever going to fix anything, because there was no one to hear. There was no God, not for him, and so it was that at the tender age of thirteen, just a month before his fourteenth birthday, John Watson lost his faith.
Sherlock was almost eight and a half years old when a gut wrenching pain ripped through his entire body and he heard a terrible and horrific screaming from somewhere, it was terrible enough that he imagined it was exactly what it would sound like if someone was being murdered. It would be days before he realized that he had been the one screaming. He'd lost his voice for over a month because of it, not that he was aware of anything. He was in and out of fever for three weeks, he couldn't even raise his arms or legs, and they fed him through a tube. He didn't notice any of it. He noticed only the pain, the fear, and the despair, both his and John's.
The warm bright place that John Watson had occupied inside of him was burning through him like acid and he had no other followers. John's faith was disappearing and Sherlock probably wouldn't survive without it, so he wished that his parents would just be merciful and end his suffering. He could feel John's agony and sorrow, he tried so hard to reach out to him, to assure him that he was there, that he wasn't alone, he had promised John that he wouldn't leave him alone, but he was too weakened to move, let alone to travel to his devotee's side. John hadn't requested his presence either, he hadn't made any prayers whatsoever, there was only pain, despair, loneliness, and hopelessness.
He couldn't even focus on his Mother's weeping or his Father or Brother holding his hand. All of them had been begging him to Forsake John, the one thing that would end his pain and maybe even save his life, there might be another devotee he just wasn't aware of yet, but he knew of nothing else except John, and he could never do that. John was his, his true devout, he wouldn't abandon him, even if that meant being abandoned in turn. He had hurt John even though he hadn't meant to, failed him, and this was the consequence of that. He wouldn't fail him again. He was a godling of Truth, he wouldn't have his promise be proven false.
Sherlock grew weaker and weaker, the room grew dimmer and more narrow, until finally he knew only darkness, and felt only as if he were floating over his own body. That's when he dreamed.
He dreamed of John, crying all alone on his bed. Sherlock was lying beside him and curled close around his hand even though he couldn't be seen or felt.
"I'm here, I haven't left you, I'll never leave you even if it kills me. I won't abandon you, you who were so brave and full of truth and strength and courage. My Honest John, I love you. I know you are sad and hurt, believe me if I could undo it I would, for your sake, but controlling or ordering Death is beyond my control. Only know I had no part in it, I would never hurt you like that, I wouldn't, not for anything. You haven't done anything wrong. It's alright if you don't really believe right now, as long as someday you will, as long as there is still hope, as long as you don't forsake me, that will be enough. I don't want to die without ever seeing you again. Please John, don't forsake me."
John's hand suddenly tightened around his with a quiet gasp. His eyes were open and he was looking straight at Sherlock and he looked completely startled to see him there. "You're hurt!"
"Yes, though 'dying' would be more accurate in Truth."
"No, don't die, don't you dare die too! Please, please don't die! I can't lose anyone else!"
"Do you really want to save me again John? You're the only one who can, only you."
"Of course! What do I have to do?" John sat up in the bed and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock curled against John's chest, listening to the steady beat of that stalwart heart, fierce and brave as a lion.
"Don't forsake me, please don't forsake me John."
"I won't, I promise, how do I help you?"
Sherlock smiled at the small promise, clung to it tightly no matter how fragile.
"Say my name, make me real, as long as I am real to you, I can't die."
"Sh- Oh no, I-I've forgotten it."
Sherlock wasn't surprised. He had nearly faded from existence entirely by this point. His name was the only thing left. This was truly his last hope, but even if it didn't work, the pain had stopped by being here in John's arms again, even though John's loos of faith was also the thing that was killing him.
"Sherlock." He said with a small smile as he looked at those lovely blue eyes and tried to decide exactly what shade of blue they were.
"Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. Don't die Sherlock, please don't die."
Sherlock smiled as John said his name. "I won't as long as you don't want me to. You can stop believing in the Christian's God all you want to, all of the major ones tend to be pretentious pompous windbags in my experience, and I was never going to share you anyways. But I'm not Him, don't ever think that I am. We are totally separate. I'm your Sherlock, I'm just for you. I don't care if no one else ever believes in me, as long as you do. You're enough John, you're the one I love and want above anyone else."
And he pulled John down to him and kissed his forehead, claiming this most precious soul as his own, and then whispered his True Name into John's ear, trusting him with everything. He had nothing left to lose.
"Anytime you even whisper that name, I'll know it. It will give me life and strength and power, you could even kill me with it if you did it right. That Name is my power, everything that I am. It's my true strength, and it's yours to use however you see fit. I trust you John. Please believe in me, make me real and I will never fail you, I will never leave you."
John was shaking, he could feel the power of that name when Sherlock had said it, a true Word of Power. John leaned close and whispered Sherlock's True Name into his ear over and over and over again, infusing Sherlock with strength and life and promise, and the beautiful renewal that was John Watson. John said it again and Sherlock shivered.
"You're real to me Sherlock, I won't ever let you die."
"Thank you John. I won't let you die either, I promise." And the world grew dark again.
Sherlock heard sobbing, outright grief filled sobbing, as if from far away and getting closer. The world gradually faded back in, and he found himself standing in his room and looking down at his body. His mother was sobbing, Mycroft and his father were both crying too, and he himself lay so still in the bed. Too still. No movement, no breath. He understood what was happening and forced himself back into his body before he lost the fragile connection.
His physical self gasped in a deep breath, loud enough for them all to hear it easily, and then he retreated to his mind palace to put this newest encounter with John somewhere where it could never be forgotten. He stayed, longer than he had meant to, and once every nuance of the encounter he could possibly preserve was saved perfectly, only then did he come back to the world fully, and was aware and alert and understanding everything around him even though his eyes were closed and he couldn't move. It was like being asleep and aware that you are sleeping at the same time. It was two days before he could open his eyes, and even then it was only to shut them again. Two more and he was slowly on the mend, but weaker than a newborn kitten.
It would be two years before he was no longer nearly fully bedridden. He wrote to John, when he was strong enough, but he never heard back from him, and the phone number no longer worked. This depressed him greatly and he missed John very much. He wondered if perhaps he was being forgotten anyway. Sherlock was very heartsick and even the smallest tasks seemed to require extreme effort.
It would be over five years before he was even halfway recovered, a full decade before he could move freely without pain, but the lethargy and lassitude would never really leave him, even though they were interspersed with periods of manic movement. He was also prone to fits of temper and frustration, especially on bad days where he felt useless. During those times no one could approach him at all without becoming the victim of his sharp tongue tearing them to shreds.
John's faith was damaged, extremely weak, and Sherlock's parents, to prevent a relapse into dangerous territory, they did what they could. Relative closeness to one's true devout would always give a deity strength, and so Sherlock's parents tracked John Watson down and enrolled Sherlock in his school with an assumed name and a face to match. Appearance modification was a skill every deity possessed, a handy trick for living throughout the ages. Sherlock still didn't like the deception of it all, but his parents made him view it differently, as showing people different aspects of himself, with different names associated with them. A popular trend for gaining strength in certain regions by focusing on one strength, if another trait would lose you those same followers.
And so Sherlock was Francis Fairweather, a many years younger child who John saved from bullies, and David Bairn, who was in the year below John, and they never met, but John often passed him in the halls. He was Phillip Kinkaid, the smartest boy in the whole school, and Johnson Parks, a substitute Chemistry teacher who stayed the entire semester and who John adored, and Thomas Greenfeld who sat next to John in fourth year, even though they didn't really talk. Also Howard Thompson, a rebel troublemaker who John tutored in maths, and Cheryl Locksford, a brunette girl who had a bit of a crush on him that waved to him in the halls.
The list went on and on through second form and uni, and even medschool. There was hardly a day that went by where John didn't encounter three or more aspects of Sherlock, and the simple fact that John acknowledged him, his presence, his reality, gave Sherlock strength and life and helped him recover and get out of pain. Talking with John was discouraged as his true self, so the moments that John did rarely speak to one of his aspects, they were precious and cherished. The time he was tutored in maths was the closest he allowed himself to get. He couldn't get too close, but even being as close as he was, it was enough for now. Until the time came for John to graduate medschool, and Sherlock was currently Victor Trevor, two years younger than John and a year below, and they often studied in the library near each other, but hadn't ever really spoken.
Sherlock knew it was a supremely bad idea, especially if it went badly, because it could undo so many years of hard work in moments, but he also knew where John was going, into the army, into WAR and there was no way that Sherlock could follow, it was against his nature, it would only weaken him, and his base of power was in London. It was an awful idea, but he had to take the chance, to let John know in some way, that he wasn't forsaken, or forgotten, and to do that he needed to touch him.
The note was obscure, except for a request to meet in a rather secluded spot at a time of day when no one else tended to be around. Part of him thought that John wouldn't actually show up, but the rest of him hoped, and that hope paid off. John appeared, looking ready for anything, perhaps a fight, so when he saw Victor Trevor calmly sitting on the grass waiting for him and looking up at him expectantly, perhaps even nervously, it was obvious it hadn't been what he had expected.
"Oh, it's you Victor, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, not really. I just, I really wanted to talk to you before you left, and I didn't want a group of idiots watching me make a fool of myself."
"Oh and how would you do that?"
"Trust me I am sure I'll manage it. People and talking aren't exactly my strong suits."
John settled down into the grass beside him. "So what is your strong suit?"
"Physics and science, the very antithesis of feelings, so imagine my surprise when that's what trips me up in life."
"I can imagine."
"So you can also imagine the difficulty I have in talking about them. If you could just hear me out until the end I would be very grateful."
"Alright."
"I know you're leaving for the military, and I wanted to let you know, before you left, because I know I'll probably never see you again, that, that I think you are beautiful. Not just physically, but you walk into a room and you just glow, everyone's eye is always drawn to you, you're like the sun. And I wanted you to know that I had noticed. I noticed how beautiful and special you are, and I always have. I want you to come back safe because this world would be much poorer without you in it. Just the thought of you not coming back causes a pain I don't even want to think about. So I wanted you to know that there will always be at least one person who is hoping like mad everyday that you come back safe from that place, even if we never see each other again, because this world needs bright and brilliant people in the world John, and you are definitely one of them."
"Are you trying to tell me that you have feelings for me?"
"Probably, it would make sense. You are the only person I have ever wanted to kiss."
John smiled wryly "Sorry, I'm not gay."
"I know you aren't, and neither am I. What does that have to do with anything? I probably qualify as some level of demisexual or asexual if we were to brutally analyze it, but that is neither here nor there. I said I wanted to kiss you, that has nothing to do with sex, or sexual orientation whatsoever. It's a sign of affection and attraction between two consenting people, and people on the whole tend to repulse me, so the chances of finding someone else in this world that I want to kiss are slim to none, and I was hoping that maybe you would indulge me before you go haring off to get shot at, and I don't have to wonder if maybe I would have liked it. Unanswered questions tend to distract me."
"You've never kissed someone before, and you want to start with me ?" John said with a hint of shock and awe in his voice as he settled himself beside Sherlock in the grass.
"There's no 'starting' about it, I don't expect anything about my preferences to change. It's just you. What part of ' people on the whole tend to repulse me ' didn't you understand? I want to kiss you to see if kissing someone who doesn't repulse me is an activity that I would enjoy, it's really no more complicated than that."
"So this would be an experiment then. For Science?" John said with a smirk. Sherlock as Victor Trevor was torn between rolling his eyes or smiling back. He did both.
"It could be. And that could even be your excuse to yourself if your masculine ego needs one, 'all just an experiment'. And you won't have a walk of shame, or a wicked hangover in the morning."
There was a strong hand on his cheek and Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as John was suddenly right there . The space between their faces was shrinking at an alarming rate, and Sherlock could feel his pulse start hammering out a vicious staccato.
"I'll kiss you on one condition. After I do, you have to come out to dinner with me, and maybe even coffee after that, and if you liked kissing me the first time, you'll have to do it again at the end of the night. Because if I'm going to be the only person you are ever going to kiss, then I am damn well going to make sure I do a proper bang up job of it and make sure it's something you never forget. It's a lot of responsibility to put on a bloke, so I have to do it right."
Victor Trevor may have smiled and said 'alright' in some sort of gentle and accepting tone, but Sherlock was almost gasping and dizzy and trying to stay sane. John's entire focus was on him, seeing him, acknowledging him, accepting him, making him real, and the moment their lips touched, there were no barriers between them. John was entirely open to him, energy was pouring into his weakened self and absorbing it like a dry sponge suddenly dunked into water. Sherlock couldn't stop himself from groaning in relief, but took nothing that wasn't freely given. He wouldn't weaken John, no matter how desperate he was.
John was thorough, skilled and gentle, and it was more than an innocent peck on the lips. It firmly rested in some vague middling ground between 'gentle affection' and 'significant other you haven't seen in a week'. There was no tongue, no roaming hands besides the one in his hair, and that was obviously more for John than himself. There was nothing trying to make it sexual or more than what it was, a kiss. A long, warm, gentle, perfect kiss with John Watson. Sherlock hadn't been this happy since John had first found him in the jungle.
When they eventually parted, Sherlock almost couldn't bring himself to let go. He didn't know when he had closed his eyes, but John was smiling at him when he opened them again.
"How was that?"
"Brilliant. If you're this good at picking restaurants, I'm really in for a treat."
John laughed and everything was fine, there was no awkwardness, no shuffling around each other. They had kissed and it was brilliant, and it was fine, it was all fine.
They had a light dinner and coffee at a very nice cafe, and then ice cream a few streets down that they enjoyed while walking through the park. Neither one of them mentioning the fact that they were holding hands by the time they stepped foot in the park. It was easy going, natural, perfect. And when John followed him into Victor's flat and they paused inside, there was no hesitation as John leaned forward again and kissed him lightly on the lips, and the jaw, and the neck, and Sherlock as Victor, could barely do anything more than to try and remember how to breathe. There was no rush, no hurry, he let John set the pace, and two hours later they were still kissing, though by that time they were full on snogging, John on top of him and actually rutting against him, and John was aroused and so close to tipping over the edge, that it would have been cruel to keep him on it any longer. As Sherlock's hand wandered down, stroking lightly over the straining bulge in John's pant's, He whispered in his ear.
"Come for me John, it's alright to give in, give it to me, let me see you as you come, please." And John moaned in release and shivered as he gave in, orgasming and plundering Sherlock's mouth with his tongue as he came, whispering Victor's name, and Sherlock was grateful for the distraction, because the energy that slammed into him from John was nearly enough to make him pass out with the strength and pleasure of it.
All of Sherlock's pain and weariness faded away and he whispered a worshipful "John" into his true devout's ear that was heavy with all of the love and adoration Sherlock felt for him.
It was nothing more than the one night. He had kissed John at the door when he was ready to head home for the night, and thanked him for everything, and begged him to be safe. No exchange of numbers or email or anything else, no strings or awkwardness, just a warm memory and a blessing before a soldier went off to war.
There was enough power in that one night that Sherlock could maintain a connection to John, and did so eagerly. He only did it in dreams, but he made those dreams pleasant. Sitting beside each other in some calm, safe place, a warm hill, a picturesque beach, a stunning mountain valley, a wooded cabin porch while watching the rain.
There were no wars to fight in those dreams, nothing much to do besides sit and talk, maybe play a game of cards, share a picnic, or a drink. They discussed science, philosophy, medical procedures, and anything else they took a shine to, but Sherlock made sure to steer clear of religion. A rejection of faith was still a rejection of him, and Sherlock couldn't afford to relapse or lose strength now.
Sherlock's face was always either vague or shifting, but he always used the name of 'Sherlock'. He knew it was working, that he truly was reaching John when he saw that John was using his name for his laptop nearly seven years it was the only contact he had with John until in the middle of the night as he was composing something strong and happy that reminded him of John when he'd been a child, there was a voice suddenly in the back of his mind.
"Please God, let me live."
Sherlock bolted upright. A prayer, it was unmistakable, and only one person that could possibly have made it for him to hear. He held to that momentary faith, that promise, that prayer, and he abandoned his corporeal form as he followed it forward fully into the void.