A.N. – Thank you to the fantabulous guest who reviewed, who I cannot reply to personally, but love all the same. How many reviews now? This is crazy and you are all amazing people, whether you have read, alerted, favourited or reviewed and I should like to give you all cake. I'll fax it to you or something. Also, *grovels for forgiveness for not updating in three months*
Warning for a bit of swearing and much angst - but I would have hoped you would have guessed by now that this story is angsty. I honestly don't think there have been any lasting happy moments. Sorry about that.
So this, this, is what it felt like. What it had felt like for John when he had fallen. How had he coped with it?
Badly.
Obviously.
Sherlock had been ready to leap after John, to plunge off the rooftop after him. There had been one terrible moment when Sherlock had been frozen, unable to move - but then, when he darted forwards, there were suddenly strong arms around him, holding him back, stopping him from doing what every fibre of his being screamed out for him to do. To be with John. To stay with him for always. They were each other's counterpart, two halves of a hole: they should never have been apart – that much was painfully clear to Sherlock.
But however much he screamed and kicked and fought and bit, the arms would not let go. As strong as he was, they were stronger.
In the cemetery, Sherlock looked down at the gravestone, no expression on his face. He could not show emotion, especially not in public. Mycroft had taught him that much.
He felt numb. He wasn't sure he could show emotion. 'Here lies John Watson, dearly remembered'.
But he'll be forgotten soon.
Soon he'll be nothing more than dust. And then not even the ground would remember him.
And the headstone would crumble and fade, perhaps even be taken away and used for building.
Then no one would remember John Watson.
Not even dearly.
He couldn't sleep. Not that he had done much before, but now he feared to even close his eyes.
Because he would be there.
Waiting.
Sometimes the dream would be at the hospital, John's terrified and tear-soaked expression burned forever into his mind. Sherlock would be running up the stairs, having found John's bed empty, but there were too many stairs and not enough time. Yet still he runs, his legs burning, his chest heaving, everything ablaze, on and on and on, until he reaches the top and bursts through the door, the cold like ice.
And John is there.
John.
For a split second, the two are reunited.
But then John falls. Staggers backwards into nothing. But not before Sherlock can see his face.
And it is his face that remains, scorched into Sherlock's brain. His face that Sherlock sees when he jolts awake, his face wet and his sheets tangled and sweaty.
Other times, he is with John but it is not John. Not-John is cold and cruel and distant, and screams at Sherlock, blood pouring from him until Sherlock is coated in it. Again. The worst part of that dream is that everything John screams is true. Then, when Sherlock wakes, he trashes the flat, smashing plates, hurling experiments at walls, ripping, tearing, breaking. It is after that dream that Mrs Hudson won't talk to him. That she scurries into her flat whenever he approaches.
Moriarty had said he would burn the heart out of him.
And he has succeeded.
Sherlock never thought that he would ever be able to frighten his indomitable land lady.
John kept him human.
But now he has lost him.
Back at the graveside, Sherlock's fists clench briefly, the knuckles stark white against the already pale skin, as if he is in pain. It is because there is another dream.
And the third dream is by far the worst.
In this dream, John is there again. But this is not Not-John, nor broken John. It is just John. Sherlock has returned to him – but it is not how it actually happened.
This is why the third dream is the worst.
Sherlock has let himself in with his old key and is standing in the flat. It is all very quiet, Sherlock's footfalls sounding out of place in the deathly silence. All at once, he feels afraid, irrationally so. He tries to tell himself that John has just popped out, but his palms grow sweaty as a cold dread steals over him. He knows nothing about how John had dealt with his "death". If he had coped with it. Suddenly, Sherlock leaps into action, bursting in through the door.
John.
John was there.
He is there, in his armchair, reading a book, a cup of tea in one hand. He hasn't seen Sherlock yet. Sherlock stares at John, an almost pained expression on his face. Surely John must see him soon.
Or perhaps he won't.
Maybe he can't.
Maybe Sherlock is dead and John cannot see him. Sherlock knows all this is irrational but he cannot stop thinking it because why hasn't John seen him?
Then John looks up. Sees Sherlock. The tea slips from his grasp and he lurches upright, staggering backwards onto the carpet, clutching the armchair for support. The light plays with his hair.
For a moment, the two stare at each other in shocked silence: then Sherlock moves forwards. "John, I know this is hard to take in-"
"You're sodding right this is hard to take in!" The sudden loudness of John's voice makes them both start a little. "You're supposed to be dead! I saw you fall, Sherlock! You jumped off a building right in front of me! Don't tell me that didn't happen because it did – I saw it! I saw you fall!" John's voice is slurring a little – he sounds like he did at Baskerville, after Sherlock had gotten him out the cage.
"You saw what I wanted you to see," Sherlock says, taking another step. John's knuckles stand out almost painfully white as he grips the chair. "I had to die."
"You didn't have to make me watch!" John explodes.
There is a pause before Sherlock speaks again, the words hanging in the air between them. "Yes, I did. You would never have believed that I was dead if you had not seen it with your own eyes. You're too loyal. You have too much faith in my abilities. It had to be convincing."
John shakes his head a little. "I still don't understand. You died, and you're not sodding telling me why or even fucking apologising! Why do you always have to be so bloody secretive, so-"
"You would have been killed." Sherlock's voice cuts across John's rant. John's mouth stays open for a few seconds, gaping wordlessly, and then snaps shut. He stares at Sherlock.
"There were three gunmen," Sherlock continues, his voice quiet. "One for you, one for Lestrade, and one for Mrs Hudson. If Moriarty's men had not seen me jump then you would have all been killed."
John looks at him, his grip loosening a little on the chair.
"I couldn't be responsible for your death, John." He pauses, and then adds, with a grim smile, "I would rather die."
There is silence for a long moment, the two looking at each other. And then John is striding towards Sherlock, closing the distance between them, and Sherlock's head suddenly snaps back, pain exploding in his jaw. Taken off guard, he reels backwards, raising a hand to his face and looking in shock at John.
"That," John says, glaring at him, "was for not telling me. And this," he steps forwards again, causing Sherlock to flinch a little, "is for doing what you did."
Suddenly, his arms are around Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn't know when he returned the hug, only that the two are now clutching at each other, locked in an embrace, John's head buried in Sherlock's chest, Sherlock's head in the crook of John's neck.
"You git. I missed you," John mutters.
Sherlock is quiet for a moment, just breathing in John, the smell of him, his essence. Then he replies, his voice lower than usual. "I... I found your absence to be displeasing as well. I would not have returned, had I not."
Sherlock's coat is beginning to feel damp. John was apparently crying but trying to keep it under control. There comes a shaky laugh.
"Coming from you, that's like a declaration of love."
Sherlock smiles into John's neck, but he is a little uncomfortable. These words make him feel something, and he doesn't know what. Or why. The smile fades and suddenly both their breathing is loud in the silent flat. Something has shifted between them.
Slowly, as if he is compelled to do so, Sherlock moves his head slightly so his lips brush against John's neck. John stiffens, his breathing jagged, and goes to pull away, but Sherlock's arms tighten around him.
"Don't," he murmurs.
They are frozen for one long moment: and then John surrenders, slumping back into Sherlock, face once more pressed against his chest.
Sherlock brushes his nose against John's neck, slower now, not wanting to frighten him off again. John's breath is hot against his ear, unsteady and shallow, and for some reason this causes something to coil down low in the pit of his stomach. He drags his nose along the slightly rough skin of John's neck, wanting to see if he smells the same everywhere; his lips accidentally brush skin again.
John's breath catches in his throat. His arms are still tight around Sherlock, clenched somewhere in the folds of his coat – but this is still not tight enough. Sherlock wants more.
His lips whisper across John's neck, tracing a wobbly path up the curve of it to his ear, nibbling experimentally on the lobe, and then Sherlock begins planting kisses along John's jaw line. The kisses are clumsy and unsure, and he stops before he reaches John's mouth, pulling away a little to see his expression. John's eyes are very bright, his face flushed.
The two stare at each other for a moment, both aware of their frantic heartbeats. The thing in Sherlock's stomach dances and coils lower.
Sherlock licks his lips, looking down at John. He is almost afraid to break the silence, worried that the spell will shatter, but he feels something must be said.
"John, I-"
But he is cut off before he can finish whatever it was he was going to say, because suddenly John's mouth is on his, crushing their lips together furiously. And then he is kissing him back, equally as forcefully, because however close they are it is still not enough, and Sherlock still wants more. The kiss is clumsy, teeth knocking and scraping together, but neither man cares because this is enough. This is more than either could have ever dreamed of: John, because he never thought Sherlock could ever feel like this; and Sherlock, because he never thought he could ever feel like this.
John's hands have wound themselves into Sherlock's hair, tugging almost painfully on the curls, and the kiss deepens, John stretching up a little more to slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. When their tongues meet, Sherlock thinks he will burst into flame right then and there. He had never thought he could ever need something this much, more than cases, more than nicotine, more than drugs.
He drags John still closer, the two gasping into each other's mouths as the last remaining fraction of air between them is eliminated. And then John has broken away, but only so he can plant kisses along Sherlock's jaw, on his ear, and then whisper, his voice throatier than usual from lust.
"I've waited so...long," he gasps, his voice hoarse. "Sherlock, you... God. You...dick."
Sherlock grins but it soon turns into a puff as John nibbles his way back down and begins to suck on the pulse point in his neck. Carotid artery, he thinks abstractedly, but any capacity for thought is soon gone when John begins to suck a little harder. Sherlock moans loudly, too far gone to care about the noise, his hands in John's hair, and pulls him back up for another sloppy kiss.
But then the mood changes – as if it were not already needy, it suddenly becomes frantic. The two men tear at each other's clothes; Sherlock's coat and jacket ripped from him, half the buttons pulled off his shirt, and there is a tearing sound as John's jumper is tugged over his head, Sherlock growling against John's lips because he is wearing far too many layers. He tells John so and he laughs breathlessly into his mouth, the sound making Sherlock's already racing heart skip a beat, just from pure happiness. And then John's hand is reaching for his trousers and his fly and this is okay because Sherlock is also reaching for John's and there is nobody else in the world whom he would do this with and he never thought it was possible to be filled with such a need and yet be so completely happy, and the two of them are back together and this is so right¸ they should never have been apart. Sherlock looks into John's face and sees only love and desire and adoration and knows that he is home.
It is then that Sherlock wakes up.
Alone.
Sometimes the sheets, or his trousers, depending on if he got changed before sleeping or not, are stained. Ruined. The sticky mess coating them is too much for Sherlock to deal with, so he just burns the sheets, without looking.
Other times Sherlock wakes with a throbbing sensation in his crotch. Then he has to go with the bathroom and deal with the problem. That is worse, because then he cannot blame it on his dreams. This is just him. Being weak.
He hadn't woken up with an erection since his teenage years. Trust John to be the exception to everything.
After this dream, Sherlock cannot go back to his bedroom for days on end. He feels ashamed. Ashamed that he cannot control his body, his mind, his impulses. But there is mostly just the huge, mind-numbing sense of loss. This is what should have happened. What should have happened if only Sherlock had been a little quicker, had pushed himself a little bit harder to get the job done more rapidly. Everything is wrong. And there is nothing Sherlock can do to make it right.
They wouldn't let him see the body. They wouldn't tell him why either, but Sherlock knew. Too upsetting. Too disturbing. They should have known that he was already disturbed; because he had done this. He had made John break and destroy his own body so that nobody was allowed to see it.
He hadn't been allowed to go to the funeral either. Bit of a shock for a person who is supposedly dead to attend his best friend's funeral. He'd probably have given the vicar a heart attack.
So this gravestone is the last he shall ever see of Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.
One of Mycroft's men is waiting for him a short distance away. Probably there to make sure he doesn't try and dig down into the soil with his bare hands to find John's coffin, to open it and crawl in and curl up next to him and that way be with him forever.
Because that is what he should be doing.
Sherlock nods once. He can't say anything. What good would it do? John can't hear him because he is dead and he is dead because of him.
It is dark by the time he feels the man's hand on his shoulder.
"Time to go, Mr. Holmes."
He takes one last look at the grave before turning away, his legs a little unsteady underneath him. He shrugs off furiously any attempt the man makes to assist him, and, slowly, staggers to the car. Mycroft has kept him under constant supervision ever since John fell – but if he thinks that will deter Sherlock then he knows his brother even less than he thinks he does.
He'll find a way. He'll be with John yet.
A.N. – And I think that's it! It's over! It's finished!
Maybe. Depends if my brain decides to spew any more.
Much respect if you realised that one passage in it was taken from Chapter 2 – I wanted to show how close Sherlock was to having things go the way he wanted them to. Also I would like to point out that I actually do like John – one of my friends stumbled across this fic and, after reading it, asked me, in an outraged tone of voice, "Do you just hate John or something?!" I vehemently protest against this. John is awesome. But sometimes I just like killing him to see how Sherlock reacts.
Apologies if anyone was offended by the manly kissing that went on – the genre was Romance, so I hope people guessed it would be Johnlock, and it wasn't too explicit, so hopefully you're all okay with that. Sorry if you're not. I didn't want to put a warning at the start because spoilers.
Thank you so much for all of you for reading and for putting up with my insanely irregular and infrequent updating – you are all truly the most fabulous people. I've just begun writing a new fic, so that should be up before too long. Life permitting.
Take care, my lovelies.
