The broken object is over the table rolling from one side to other. The sun is filtering through the dirty glass of the windows. And the kaleidoscope still reflects the colors hidden inside it. But even broken, its making funny, undefined and colorful shapes in the opposite wall. A pale hand takes the object and it dies when is smashed against the floor, showing the different beads and gems that used to give the object its psychedelic effect.
Sherlock let his eyes meet with the mantelpiece and he sees them all. All the pictures and souvenirs John has been looking for the day before to say (good) bye. He doesn't need to be a graduate from Cambridge to count the three pictures and recall all those moments they represent. The first one had been taken after solving a strange and peculiar case at the local theater in London, wearing hats. Both of them. The next one has the two of them writing in their laptops almost smiling, a picture surprisingly taken by their landlady when she used to live there and the last one is the biggest. Taken the day of their wedding as John calls- correction - used to called it. But it was only a civil partnership. A contract in which both of them signed to be responsible for the other in case of damage. Sherlock always believed it wasn't necessary, but John insisted and God, he insisted a lot. And the detective agreed. But now, the document saved in the deepest of their desk drawer is no longer useful if his brother is the one taking care of all of his husband's things.
Even his own body.
He smashes all the frames against the floor and his bare feet bleed when they meet the broken glass. He doesn't care. Because not happy with the damage on their carpet or the damage imposed over John's work, Sherlock takes them with his hands and rips them. And all the pictures die in uncountable numbers of little pieces. Specially John's face.
Because the hatred Sherlock Holmes has been sowing against John Watson explodes today.
A deerstalker hat also meets his own death when its burnt with acid in the sink.
The violinist takes his musical instrument again and looks for his scores. He will play again that song and he won't mind for his bleeding feet nor his bleeding fingers. He won't mind about the hurt strings, no. He will play and play.
Message from Mycroft Holmes - 10.23 P.M
Everything has been settled. MH
The tall man frowns when he reads the unread text on John's mobile phone. He had mentioned Mycroft in the letter he addressed to him, but isn't aware of all the things John Watson had asked. Things Sherlock Holmes won't be part of. Because John Watson didn't want him to.
But he plays. He plays a long and dark song he composed long time ago, and he plays for his little audience. A dead man lying over his bed, with his hands in a prayer position and with a tired expression on his face. The detective opens the window and let all the residents at Baker Street hear his composition. The sun shines incredibly stronger than usual and soon, he hears three cars at their door and people in the stairs.
He stops.
The first person coming inside his him. He's wearing a black suit with a matching tie and a dark umbrella as well. Mourn. Mycroft Holmes is mourning John Watson.
A man well dressed, not speaking at all, gestures the group of forensics to remove the body, but with a cold glare the British Government man closes the door of the room.
And there's only him, his brother and John.
"What do we know about this man?" Sherlock Holmes asks, while he places his violin on the other side of the bed, his side and with the bow in his right hand points at his dead husband. His older brother is just following his movements with his green eyes. His green eyes that look so tired and sad this morning. Because receiving John's will and his letter was the last thing he wanted to read. Even when he knew this was about to happen.
This was bound to happen.
"What do we know about this dead man over the bed?" He emphasizes over the word dead and continues speaking while he touches and observes John's body, like if he were another case.
"What do we know about this dead man over my bed? If I didn't know him, I'll say late forties, early fifties. Looks older judging by the wrinkles in his face and the white hairs on his head. Stress. This man had been under a lot of stress and through a strong depression. Marks on his neck. He carries a heavy and big stethoscope, the ones used for children, Doctor, pediatrician. Army Doctor in fact. Could be Afghanistan or Iraq. He has a big scar on his shoulder. A shot, invalided back to London. Not only that, he used to have a limp years ago, but it came back..." Sherlock removed the blue socks on John's feet and looked at them."... it came back a year ago judging by the light bruises in the arch of his feet. His hair is neatly combed and the pillow is slightly damp. He took a shower before going to sleep. He used a lot of soap, he's still have rest of it under his arms and legs and-" This time, Sherlock touched his hair, closing his eyes when his fingertips met the softness of his deceased husband's hair. He smelled like him. John had used his shampoo. "-And the fact his hair and his pajamas are perfectly conserved, they indicate he died soon after he fell asleep. He never moved since he lay in this bed-"
"Why, Sherlock?"
The older man's voice sounds so sore. He can't barely talk, but he's still there. Looking for an answer and looking at his brother with those sad and tired green eyes.
"He's left handed. He has a callosity in his middle finger of his left hand where he supports the pen when he writes. He had several bruises and scars over his body. Three types of scars, some of them are from his childhood. A very clumsy kid. Some others are from knives. This man doesn't look like the drinker type who has fights after pints in a pub. He was used to fight at pubs for someone, not for himself. A closer relative. A sibling. The last type of scars are recently. In the inner part of his arms and under his ribs. He must have fallen over the pavement of a street or over the cement floor of a public pool trying to push someone to the water. He tried to save someone, he tried to keep someone alive-"
"Sherlock-"
"Oh, but there are more! His ring. He has a ring, he's married but he removed it before going to sleep. The white line in his ring finger of his left hand? Too strong, without looking at the ring I'd say he had been married for years" The detective takes the ring, that was resting over the bedside table and looks at it carefully. His grey eyes move from one place to another, scanning it and taking his own conclusions. "Despite the fact this ring looks brand new, it isn't. The owner of this ring, this man here, had been polishing it through the years and before, preferably yesterday afternoon. Strong sentiments, this man was deeply in love with his partner. The engraving. The engraving says a lot since it has not this dead man's name but his partner's. Sherlock Holmes"
A long silence invades the room. Mycroft Holmes, the British Government himself stays in his place, standing in front of the large bed where John's dead body is lying. His green eyes scan the room and he sees all the things John had warned him before hand in his letter. The flags, the medals and the rings are beside him, as he said. He also warned him about his brother's actions. His tee shirt is bruised. He can see his body as been moved. Sherlock must have shook his shoulders trying to bring him back. And his back, his shirt is bruised. He had been hit with something and that something is in his brother's long hands. He wants to take John away from this and from Sherlock. He must do it, because John made him promise he will.
And Mycroft Holmes remembers John's letter by heart.
LETTER ADDRESSED TO MYCROFT HOLMES. IT MUST BE READ ONLY IN CASE OF MY DEATH.
Mycroft Holmes,
As it says up here, if you are reading this, it means I'm going to die.
I'm leaving you my will because I don't want to disturb your brother with things he can't and he won't mind at all. I don't want to impose anything to him. My parents are both dead, my sister left years ago when she drank herself to death. I don't have anyone. You, Mycroft, my brother-in-law, are the last family left and I'm proud and happy you are the only one.
There isn't any need to explain the reasons of my departure though I bet my life (my life) that you already know why. After a long time I don't really want to think how much time exactly, I have been fighting against this moment and I surrender.
Your brother can't be charged with my death, even when I'm supposed to die naturally. I do trust, and I'm aware of all the power in your hands. Tomorrow, I need you to arrive early in the morning, before eight. I must be lying in Sherlock's bed. You'll need to settle a show for the neighbors. Actors, or if you have a special forensic team, it will help. Remove my body from Baker Street as soon as you can. I need to be from away from here, because I know what will happen to me. Your brother has strange tendencies, Mycroft. Take me away as soon as you can and then burn my body. I do trust Sherlock will hand you my flags, my medals and my wedding ring. They will be beside me. They are bound to be burnt with my body. Burn them with my body and throw my ashes to the Thames. I have good and bad memories there, but the Thames hides too many things that ashes of a dead man won't mind at all. Please, don't let anyone to investigate about my death, on my body. I don't need to be taken to a mortuary. Believe me, my heart will stop beating. That's all. A painless death. Arrange everything so it looks like an imminent heart attack. I need you to keep this from the Scotland Yard. Lestrade needs to believe I died that way, or they won't hand Sherlock more cases and we know what happens to him when he is not using his magnificent cleverness.
My savings are in the bank account you already know about and I want you to give that money to the Pediatric wing at Surgery. There isn't too much, but enough to buy new toys and a few things for the kids there. They do deserve something, after giving me all the happiness and love they gave me. And believe me they did a great job. They made my dark days a bit brighter.
A last request, my dear brother-in-law, do take care of your brother. He's fully capable of it, but keep an eye on him. I have the feeling you'll have to hire a housekeeper or a maid tomorrow. Make sure he keeps working, that he keeps his mind engineering, that the person who owns him now doesn't harm him nor hurts his heart. Make sure he's happy. Make sure he lives. Make sure Sherlock lives a long and prosperous life.
Make sure Sherlock forgets me.
You are aware of how many times I tried to convince Sherlock to talk to you, to be the brother you do deserve, after all, you're the only Holmes left after your mother's death and I'm aware of your love towards your little brother, of your concern towards him. You know that. So in exchange, let's put it this way, I'm only asking you to take care of my body and the police. I feel so embarrassed, asking you this like an exchange of favors because believe me, Mycroft, I never wanted anything in exchange for being your brother's partner. Though I have been a more a keeper than a partner. But I don't have anyone left, and you, my brother-in-law, you were- you are like the brother I never had. I regret with all my heart telling you this by letter and not face to face, but there are so many things I always wanted to say, that my heart aches in pain. I regret not being able to talk to you face to face and even giving you a last shake of hands. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry for leaving you in charge with these things and I apologize again, I'm sorry, I don't want to impose you anything. But as I said, you're the only one left. I don't have a family anymore, less a partner. I'll repeat it, you my dear brother-in-law are the last person left to me. You were like a brother to me, and I'm sorry for not letting you know this before. Here is where I regret so many things. And one of them is this. I really wish I could give you a hug, like the one you gave me when I got married with your brother.
I must stop, I'm getting too repetitive.
You are a very clever man, I don't really have enough adjectives to describe you, but I'll miss you a lot. You were like a brother to me, and you always have been there when we needed you. And I'm leaving relieved, knowing the British Government and this world are in good hands, Mister Mycroft Holmes.
Pleasure to meet you.
My best wishes,
Captain John H. Watson. M.D.
He tells him about the letter without reading it, because he knows it by heart and he repeats every word, every one. Even the commas, the points. Everything.
"Why, Sherlock?"
The young man looks at his brother and runs a hand over his dark curls. He looks down at his left hand, where his wedding ring is. It's so dirty, unpolished for years now. He removes it. Sherlock Holmes removes it from his finger and compares his with the other one.
"The owner of this ring hasn't polished it for years, but it shines inside. The man was used to remove the ring to claim his singleness, because something about his partner made him. His name is engraved inside. His partner's name shines. John Watson. The dead man had strong feelings towards his partner, even when he thought that that person didn't love him anymore"
"Why, Sherlock?"
Mycroft Holmes repeats the question because he wants to hear the answer. He knows the answer, but he needs Sherlock Holmes saying it. Because Sherlock Holmes knows.
"I know he died after closing his eyes last night because I saw him. He said goodnight, I replied back and I saw him dying. I heard him, I heard his last breathe and I also heard his last beat, the last beat of his heart. I saw him dying."
The forensic team, hired by Mycroft Holmes, removes the body of the deceased Army Doctor John Hamish Watson shortly after eight in the morning in a black bag. Many neighbors show their condolences to the widowed man who is standing in the doorway, watching how the police and forensic cars leave, following his brother's dark car.
Of course they don't say a word. Just a sad face to him. They know how these man in black suit and a matching shirt is.
And in silence, the detective returns to his flat. Two hundred and twenty one B of Baker Street is so silent today. The tea he made for himself is cold now. There is such a mess! Broken glasses from the kaleidoscope John built years ago. Broken glasses from the pictures and frames smashed against the floor.
The smell, that characteristic smell from a mortuary had gone from Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes wears a strong perfume today.
His feet ignore all the traces of broken glasses and he lays in his bed. On his side of the bed and he lets his bleeding fingers trace imaginary patterns on John's side. The pillow is still damp from his wet hair, from his shower yesterday. The sheets, the duvet, all the room smells like John.
Sherlock Holmes closes his eyes and remembers all the moments he had lived in that bed.
.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm over you on my bed"
"I know, Sherlock. But you-"
The dark haired man kissed his Doctor for the first time, that night after returning from a long hiatus of three years. And the shorter man kissed him back.
.
"I want you"
"You said it so easily"
"You don't want me?"
"I want you. I love you with all my heart, Sherlock"
"I love you too, John"
.
"Would you marry me?"
"Why getting married? We are fine this way. Papers and ceremonies are rubbish"
"I want to be with you, and-"
"You are already with me. Actually, you're on top of me."
"I just want you- in case, just in case if something happens to me, I want you to have power over things"
.
He kissed him, he touched him. But he wasn't there. Sherlock's body was there, but his mind was somewhere else. And John could feel it.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?"
"Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?"
"I don't know what's happening with you!"
"You."
.
John was reading a fat book. For some reason John had been reading a lot of Medical journals and books lately.
"Sherlock, I need you to come with me to Bart's, tomorrow early-"
"I'm working"
"I know. But this is kind of... important to me"
"And I have work tomorrow"
.
The night after that silent breakfast, John made his way under the duvets without saying a word. Sherlock had admitted what john had been suspecting for a long time. The detective had lost interest in them. In their relationship. In their love.
He waited, while he heard John's silent crying. Because he knew he was crying. But for some reason, Sherlock didn't say a word.
And there was where everything started.
His mobile phone rings. And he's not moving from his place on his bed. He's still there, crying in silence while the sentiment crashes against his chest. The real feelings, the moments, the memories, John, all of them crashes against Sherlock's heart. And his chest aches. He talks alone because he knows he's there, listening to him. He asks him how he knew he was going to die. Who told him. Why he never said a word.
Sherlock asks him why he left. Why he left him alone, because he admits his feelings. He never stopped loving him. Because John Watson had to die to make Sherlock Holmes understand what he had lost. And rage, that strange and hurtful feeling invades him. Because he doesn't even know where John will be, because John didn't want him to know. And he can't even deduce it.
Because he realizes he does know nothing about the man who was lying dead. He only remembers the past. A pool, John jumping on him to save him from a bomb. John killing a cabbie in less than twenty fours hours after their first meeting. John watching him die. John visiting his fake grave. John running after criminals. John putting himself at the stakes for him.
John saved him. John had put his own life at stakes for him, to keep him alive. Sinking in his own despair, Sherlock runs a hand under his own pillow and he feels it. And he finds it. A last note. A note John forgot to write in his letter. Under his pillow, Sherlock finds the last words.
"Tell me if love is the same for the two of us,
and tell me if you dream with what I do believe.
And tell me if pain taught us
to see the worst.
I'd feel better."
He knows those words. He knows that song. That Spanish song John sang to him once in a private moment after their wedding. And he kissed him, softly. John, on tip toes, kissed him and promised him something.
"I'll love you, always. For ever. Even after death do us apart"
Sherlock Holmes wonders if John is still keeping that promise alive.
Fin.
What started with a small paragraph, ended in a story. I've decided that the best style I can write about and suits me and my not-so-good writing is Angst, so maybe in the future I'll write more. So stay tuned with me!
I apologize for all the mistakes you could have found. I'm sure someday I'll look back at all my fics and I'll be able to fix them all.
I'm truly sorry for making you cry or feel sad with this. But after writing stories in which they are friends, brothers, lovers and a good married couple, I needed to prove that couples aren't always happy. And sometimes love dies. It sounds sad, but it happens.
[The Spanish song mentioned at the end is "Nuevo Día" by Diego Torres. Is an amazing and very sweet song. Please, do watch the video on youtube /watch?v=jQKyvWb092o&ob=av2e you can find the translated lyrics on my profile.]
THANK YOU FOR ALL THE FAVS AND ALERTS. AND SPECIALLY TO THOSE WHO TOOK THEIR TIME TO LET ME KNOW YOUR OPINIONS. YOU MADE ME VERY HAPPY WITH YOUR COMMENTS, ALL OF YOU :)