[FIC] Vagus (BBC Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach)
Title: Vagus
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Moriarty
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: Not sure. Probably PG-13 for bereavement issues.
Word Count: ~500
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is Gatiss and Moffat's, those giant trolls. But I love them anyway.
[A/N]: Inspired by a comic on cascara's Tumblr. I was going to take a hiatus from writing but ended up with a short ficlet anyway. I'm soooooo changable! (Sorry.)
It is exactly two months since Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s, and his subsequent post-mortem. John sits in front of his desk, poring over his medical journals; it seems easier when he is working, the impartiality of clinical trials and statistics bringing his consciousness further from an invisible wound that would not heal.
Why, John had asked himself over and over again. Why did he do it, why did he lie to me. He suspected it had to do with Moriarty, but as the consultant criminal had apparently vanished into thin air, John was left slowly seething with impotent anger and a grief that could not be bourne out by human language. If he were Sherlock, he would know what to do. Know the right people to find, the right questions to ask. But he’s not Sherlock. Sherlock is dead, gone, in an advanced stage of decay under six feet of dirt, a brilliant mind and his best friend becoming magnesium and potassium and calcium, feeding the grass and the insects around his grave.
John realizes that he has in fact been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes, and none of the content has permeated. He sits back and presses his eyes with a hand until he sees stars - and a wave of deja vu hits him like a frieght train.
Sherlock refusing to extract the human tongue from the vegetable crisper.
Sherlock shooting at the yellow graffiti on the wall.
Sherlock walking into the flat with a harpoon and covered in blood.
Sherlock composing a violin concerto after identifying Irene’s body.
Sherlock’s exultant yell as he hears of a museum burglary of paintings of a waterfall.
Little fragments of memory of times when Sherlock had made John rub his face in frustration, if not physically then (barely contained) within his head.
Memories all so vivid, John half expects the doorbell to ring - Lestrade, to give Sherlock the waterfall case. Or Sherlock, back from Minsk, one small weekend suitcase and a ton of reproachful comments about wasted time.
John laughs mirthlessly at his own silliness. If only. If only time could be rewritten, if only the impossible were possible.
One more miracle, Sherlock. For me.
A shrill vibrating sound cuts through his thoughts.
The doorbell. It rang.
John’s mind is still suspended in disbelief when he finds himself nearly tripping down the stairs, blood roaring in his ears and his heart beating triple time.
It can’t be. Can it?
The final miracle?
He opens the door with a name at the tip of his tongue, and no one is there.
On the first floor of 198 Baker Street, Jim studies the face of his companion carefully. Was that necessary, he wants to ask, but something in the light of the other’s eyes tells him to do so would trigger a long and tedious argument.
Instead he asks, ”Was that… wise?”
Sherlock turns to him, and it’s like looking at a raw, dissected heart; all exposed atriums and ventricles and blood. Jim has never seen anything as beautiful.
“Sometimes, intelligence is irrelevant,” Sherlock murmurs as his nemesis pulls him down for a biting kiss.