A/N Nothing much to say~ Review?
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
VII. Heaven
"But as a place, John—as an actual, material location in the universe, it doesn't exist."
John sighs and sits back a bit farther in his chair, clearly frustrated with the religious conversation even though it's thus far lasted for only a few minutes. Sherlock isn't, though. He loves this, persuading people out of their unfounded, immaterial beliefs, attempting to prove just how wrong they are. It feels good to use his own intelligence to unwind stupid myths like this.
"That's not the point," the blonde doctor objects. He's hard to work against; all of Sherlock's words rebound off upon encountering the hardened shell that comes with years of praying and pledging blind faith, built up so that not a single crack spiders across it, leaving his defenses virtually impenetrable. "Lives—souls—they don't really have physical substance, do they? It's a sort of… alternate plane, a… realm crafted of emotions, if you will."
Sherlock snorts, not bothering to hold back an expression of delighted incredulity. "A realm crafted of emotions? Do you hear what you're saying?"
"It's a… happy place. Just try to imagine this for a second."
He shrugs, implying neutrality.
"Imagine somewhere where nothing hurts. Everything is wonderful, there's no doubt or dread, it's just… contentment, universal contentment."
"But I can't imagine that, because it's impossible. When people die, they don't go to some—some magical sparkly fairyland." Sherlock waves a hand vaguely in the air for a moment, then drops it to his side. "They just die. Nothing comes after."
It turns into a much bigger argument than Sherlock originally anticipated. In fact, John refuses to talk to him for a day, and when he does begin to warm up again, it's a slow process. But as the days, the cases, and the countless cups of tea whisk by, the feud eventually fades away, until the bond between the two men is only stronger for having suffered damage.
They fight other times, too—some of their conflicts larger than that concerning heaven, some smaller. But they always make it through, even when the most ragged of holes is torn in their relationship: Sherlock fakes his suicide at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and John is positive for three whole years that he's alone, alone for the rest of his days, that the time when their lives intersected was nothing more than a far-fetched dream.
Sherlock comes back, though, and once John's initial shock fades, it's evident that something has changed. They're closer, much closer—it's a sort of accepted fact that John doesn't have any girlfriends anymore, that they don't need the upstairs bedroom and it ends up being converted to a storage area.
And during these nights, they'll both lie under the covers in the warm darkness, listening to each other's slow, heavy breaths, John's head on Sherlock's chest and his hand on John's, so that they can feel both of their heartbeats pounding away together, undivided and inseparable, knowing and thinking of nothing but the other. In these moments, these tiny, sweet, silent moments, Sherlock sometimes suspects that there is a heaven after all. But it's not in the sky, not in the afterlife, nothing unreasonable like that. Maybe it's right here, right now, as they drift off to sleep together. Because, much as he strains his mind, he can't fathom anything better.