Chapter Fourteen
Falling Rain
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If you thought Sherlock was OOC in the last few chapters, he's an emotional wreck in this one. Thanks for reading! We're nearing the end now...
The rain continues to smack down, drenching his suit and plastering his curly hair to his head. Finally, he gets up. Mrs Hudson is dead. Mourning next to a gravestone isn't going to bring her back.
As he turns away, a name catches his eye. Painfully, he allows himself to look back at it. A few feet away, he sees 'John H. Watson'. Who died less than a month ago. The words are carved elegantly into black marble and it takes him a moment to realise that it is the same type of stone he had put in place when he pretended he was dead all those years back. And it is in exactly the same spot.
In a daze, he walks towards it, and halts in the same place that John would have stopped when he had visited Sherlock's grave. Did he cry? How often did he come here? He had missed John's funeral. Lestrade had told him about it, but he had refused. He isn't going to attend a service for someone he doesn't even know.
Feeling intrusive, he steps forward tentatively and sits next to the recently dug up turf. The rain whips around him, pouring down, quenching the soft earth. Sherlock takes a breath.
"John. I'm sorry." And he is. "You were my best friend. At least, that's what they're all saying. And I can't even remember who you are. When… When I fell… When I jumped off the roof of St Bart's… you must have felt terrible. I can't even begin to imagine it. The thing is, I can't remember if I've already told you this. Already apologised for my actions. Because I can't remember you. I'm trying so hard. I promise. But I can't… I don't feel… I don't feel exactly close to you. And you did. And… you must have been upset when – when you thought that I was dead. But the thing is… I feel guilty. I should be upset, according to what everyone's told me, but I… I don't know what to think anymore. And it scares me."
He admits the feeling for the first time and suddenly feels a great weight lifting off his shoulders.
"Why did you have to die?" He continues, almost annoyed. "I don't even remember what happened that night. I thought I was on my own… I don't know how it happened… I… I could have stopped it, couldn't I? I should have. It was me who wanted to track the man down. I shouldn't have brought you along too… Now I can't even remember –"
Something snaps. A powerful emotion seizes him as a memory sears through his mind.
John turning away, irritated. Sherlock swallowing, calling after him. "Listen, what I said before John… I meant it. I don't have friends… I've just got one."
He shudders and ends up on all fours, breathing hard. How…? Why…? He slowly looks up at the black marble before him. John Watson. John H. Watson. The H stands for…? His head is hurting from the intensity of the vision. He stares at the name in the gold lettering, trying to feel a connection. A spark. Anything.
Nothing.
"John." He says quietly to himself. "John, John, John…" He repeats it like a mantra in his head. Such an ordinary name. John. Why would he associate himself with ordinary people in the first place? Lestrade, he will admit, was necessary. He needed someone there so he could get cases. And a dysfunctional friendship formed from thereon. But John?
He is so wrapped up in his thoughts that the sound of soft weeping barely registers at first. Finally, he looks up, distracted, wondering who it is. He sees no one. Then – Oh. His body is shaking. The icy droplets of rain snake down his cheeks like tears. He feels terrible. In his chest, the emotion is stronger than ever. It hurts…
He is the one crying.
Unable to control himself, he collapses into a shivering heap on the soil, choking back sobs, his voice small "I d-don't understand… Why am I c-crying? J-John? I – I – I don't even know w-why…" All he understands is that this is the worst pain he has ever felt in his life. Wetness rolls down his face and he wants to stop but he can't, so he simply lies there, crying, a broken man.
Minutes elapse. Each second slips away. Gone forever.
A hand touches his shoulder. "Time to go home." Mycroft hauls him to his feet and Sherlock staggers up, leaning into him, limp with exhaustion. The umbrella goes up. They are both soaking wet. Mycroft stands still for a moment, one arm around his brother to support him. Sherlock doesn't know how long he has been watching, but it barely matters. "You're going to catch a cold."
"It h-hurts…" He tries to stop the tears, but they cascade down his face relentlessly.
"Where?" Mycroft asks at once, concerned.
"I d-don't… I don't know, it just hurts…"
His sibling sighs quietly and without another word, he leads Sherlock away.