52 Weeks (Sherlock/John, Post Reichenbach) 2/4)
Title: 52 Weeks
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: death, depression, and the like.
Word Count: 2,208
Disclaimer: I borrow them, I don't own them.
Post Reichenbach. Sherlock is dead; John is going through the classic phases of grief ... badly. Divided into four parts, this fic chronicles his progress week by week, the reconstruction of his life without Sherlock. Can John possibly find a happy ending?
Summer
14
Even after a thorough, scalding shower, he can still somehow smell blood. His hands shake for three days.
John diagnoses himself with shock. And post traumatic stress disorder.
He write himself a prescription for Valium. The pharmacist doesn't meet his eye as she fills it, and hands over the drugs, which he receives with tremouring hands.
He almost, almost takes up his cane, convinces himself of pain. Considers it a long while. Instead he opens the violin case, and plucks the strings gently.
No appetite. He creeps painfully around the flat like an animal dragging a steel trap.
Looking in the mirror, he sees the shadow of a new face: a strange mutation of the familiar John, spliced with Other.
15
John trails into the kitchen wearing one sock.
He does the usual preparations. One cup.
Catches himself, his eyes widen, staring at the cup in astonishment. One cup.
No. No no. He gets another cup. Brews another tea - steaming water pours, swirling, mingling with the tea leaves, darkening to a tannin slippery mud.
John rests at the table, sipping his brew, staring at the window but not through it. The undrunk cup of tea sits on the other side, damning in it's fullness.
16
On Saturday nights, John gives himself a treat.
A bottle of decent wine, normally Sancerre. He drinks it slowly, enjoying the feeling of the liquid carousing over his tongue, bringing his throat to goosebumps.
When half the bottle is gone, Sherlock appears ... a spectre of Sherlock, the one he has been searching for in the alcohol. It's voice isn't quite right (there's something off about the intonation) but it's attitude certainly is,
"Good Lord look at you John,” Sherlock curls his lip, “is this what humanity has come to?"
Sherlock swipes the bottle from the table, wraps his lips around the head and takes a gulp (Spectre Sherlock does this, another way in which he deviates from the original).
"Sherlock."
"John." Sherlock flops next to John on the settee, legs splayed, smiling, all languor and heat,
"Mmm, John,” he rubs his cheek against John's shoulder, almost hard enough to bruise. Sherlock's affection is as psychopathic and terrifying as his genius, and his anger.
John raises an enquiring eyebrow,
"You're ... back?"
"Only for a while. It takes on average one hour for one unit of alcohol to leave the body. So if you keep drinking, we have until morning.”
"Of course," John takes the bottle from Spectre Sherlock and takes a long gulp, "So. Why did you die?"
Sherlock's grin has everything about it of the Cheshire cat, "Because you were naughty, John, very, very naughty..."
It goes along those lines until a second bottle of Sancerre has been drained. Spectre Sherlock's 'drinking' isn't massively helpful seeing as he can't physically swallow, and John has managed to imbibe a lot.
He doesn't know how but he feels sick and woozy, can't stand up, cannot be. Spectre Sherlock has disappeared into the darkness, without even a goodbye, and the walls are soldiers marching in on John and all there is is silence coming at him from all directions and oh god where is his gun) -
"John."
A hand, warm, with infinite care but absolute insistence, removes the bottle from his grasp.
John can't force his eyes to focus, half asleep, struggles ineffectually, mumbling incoherent statements of desolation, is vaguely aware of being guided through the sitting room, and laid down gently in Sherlock's bed.
"Sleep, sleep..."
He manages to open his eyes, only to slits, watching the bleary world through those tiny portals. The skin behind his eyes feels like crushed velvet.
"Hush."
Dark. Light. Blue.
In his stupor, John has enough, just enough sense to anchor himself, clinging like a limpet, to wrap himself around salvation. And salvation does not resist, but falls into him, plunging together into the abyss, they exist in the present perfect tense, exist together in solitude, John's mind has transcended he thinks I believe in God for the first time in his life. And everything is sanctified, everything is incandescent, everything -
He wakes. Horribly hungover. Alone. Mouth, dry, disgusting, he tastes the wine on the back of his tongue, stale.
Rolls over, to check the clock on his nightstand.
Paracetamol, two, sat neatly on a paper napkin. A glass of tepid water, relatively fresh.
On the floor by the bed, a plastic bowl, big enough to vomit into.
The curtains are carefully drawn.
When he finally finds the strength to venture into the kitchen, there are two slices of bread in the toaster, waiting.
John stands, in the middle of the living room, in bewildered misery. Complete misery.
There is a tree of hope. He read about it, once, a long time ago. It is a beautiful tree. But, all trees age, and stop giving forth blossoms. John can't visit that tree again, hoping for fruit. He would die, starving.
20
When John returns from his walk, Mycroft is lounging in his armchair,
"Good morning, John." he smiles, without teeth. Anthea is in the corner, eyes on her phone.
John sighs, "Hullo Mycroft. To what do I owe the ... visit?"
He shuffles to the radiator and gives the valve a few ineffectual twists. So, so cold, always.
Mycroft picks something up from the floor beside him. A brown manila envelope, sealed. And a thin, white envelope, also sealed.
"For you."
Suspicious, John moves to take them.
"What are these?" he gives the brown envelope an experimental shake.
"Those, John, are Sherlock."
A twist in his gut, John's offal churns sickeningly,
"What?"
Mycroft allows a small twitch of irritation, "In the white envelope, a cheque. Since his rehabilitation, Sherlock had little to spend his money on. Rent, body parts, and the occasional sartorial indulgence were about it." His eyes flick subtly to Sherlock's coat (Aquascutum, John now knows, and incredibly warm, incredibly soft) which is still hanging on the back of the door.
"Don't spend it all on penny sweets."
"And in this one?" John holds up the thicker, brown envelope.
Mycroft stands, fastening his suit with a swift jerk of his fingers, "I don't know. It was found in his PO Box. The note attached said only, 'For JW' - One assumes you were the only JW in his life, he wasn't exactly a socialite - and 'Open on pain of death'."
John frowns, "You could have opened it. He's hardly going to play the violin at younow."
"Ah yes," Mycroft smiles enigmatically, "Still..."
With a crisp nod, he leaves the room. John turns.
"Anthea?" She's still typing away. "Mycroft's gone."
"Oh." Anthea looks towards the door, "Right."
And then, John is alone. He places both envelopes on the mantelpiece, rings his voicemail, and burrows into Sherlock's bed, fully clothed.
"John, this is Sherlock. Holmes. I require assistance with something. Come home. Bring carbohydrates."
21
It's Monday. John has spent the weekend looking through newspaper clippings.
In one, he and Sherlock are at a Scotland Yard event. He can't remember what; a media something-or-other. Sherlock has his back very pointedly towards Donovan. He's leaning down towards John, like a bat swooping down on its prey. John is smiling, the sort of smile that can only be described as indulgent or, if one were in a different mood, adoring.
John returns to this clipping, again and again. Something about it ... important. He goes to the bathroom, takes the clipping, analyses the uplifted smile and tries to replicate that feeling, that face. Imagines Sherlock looking down at him, lecturing him, Sherlock giving him that rare only-because-you're-my-blogger laugh.
You're the most human person I know.
And now you're gone, I'm the most inhuman person I know.
He tries the smile, again. Closes his eyes. Opens them. Again. Imagines Sherlock brushing hair out of his eyes, staring into a microscope. Closes his eyes. Opens them. Again. Sherlock, forgetting John is watching and doing a little dance after solving a particularly tricky case. Closes. Opens. Again. Sherlock.
I don't have friends. Just one.
Closes. Opens. He's crying. Silently. He hadn't even noticed. His tonsils ache.
Closes. Lets his body sink to the bathroom floor. His silence breaks, giving way to harsh, choking sobs that crack the silent air as if it were fine china.
He cries so much his tears ruin the ink of the picture, distorting Sherlock's face beyond all recognition.
22
John opens the slim, white envelope. He feels brave enough now.
A cheque, just as Mycroft had said. Coutts, of course, where else would Sherlock bank. A ridiculously large amount of money.
John carefully slides the cheque back into its envelope and places the envelope back on the mantelpiece.
He picks up the brown envelope and takes it to the sofa. Runs his fingers along the edge. Turns it over, testing its weight.
"Just open it," he whispers. And he does.
Inside ... several pieces of paper, and a photograph, which flutters to the ground. John picks it up.
Sherlock. Child Sherlock. John had never thought of Sherlock as having had a childhood; he feels as if he's being shown a very secret part of the man, a part that Sherlock had kept cloistered away during his life. But for some reason wanted John to be aware of now, In the photo Sherlock must be eight, perhaps ten. Standing on a bridge in the countryside, the river behind him long, steel green water. He's wearing a duffle coat.
He stares into the camera lens with a glacial expression, arms folded tight across his chest.
John huffs a little laugh, "Sherlock."
The photo gets a prominent spot at the very centre of the mantelpiece. Maybe he'll buy a frame.
He slips the other pieces of paper back into the envelope without unfolding them. He wants to draw out these pieces of Sherlock's life. He'll take them like antibiotics, in doses, to preserve the pleasure.
23
In June, John leaves the house for his morning walk, and is surprised to find he doesn't need a coat.
In celebration, takes one piece of paper from the manila envelope with him. Sits on a bench in Regent's Park, overlooking the river.
Unfolds it. Sherlock's writing, the spidery writing sprawling across the page, ink spots marring it's surface.
John smoothes the paper carefully out on his lap, willing his hands not to shake.
'The technical term, I believe, is misanthrope. I have also heard egoist, isolate, recluse, solipsist. I find none offensive.
Looking back, I have to assume I always was those things. As a youngster I would hide myself in secluded spots to spy on the world. Extremely Ralph Izzard. Frightening at first - being so detached. I often wondered if I was somehow faulty, a misprint on the page of humanity.
Then, perfect solitude. Paradise in deduction. I truly believed I could contentedly (if not happily, but of course my definition of happiness is at a certain end of the spectrum) spend my life that way.
Now, I have realised (and this is indeed a revelation, John) that there are some parts of a person that do not die.
And when it comes to eternity, I think I'd prefer some company. Your beauty is lost on some, but found by me.
Yours,
SH'
John smears away his fat tears before they can ruin the page. He smoothes the paper over and over with his hands, caressing.
He sits on the bench, watching the slow-winding water, for a long time. The thick lump of sorrow in his throat is still pulsing sadly. But, with these words in his hands, he feels a little less alone.
24
He decides that he'll to write to Harry. Can't face seeing her, but knows it's right to make the effort:
I've found someone, who thinks I am a very separate person, and I think he wants to kiss me like they kiss in films. Unfortunately, he's dead.
No, that won't do. He tears it up. Inspiration, he needs ...
John goes to the manila envelope on the mantelpiece, and chooses a piece of paper to discover. Only two left, now.
Back at the table, he takes a deep, anticipatory breath, and unfolds it. A4.
24th December 2011
Sherlock's scratchy writing, again. Christmas Eve. What had they been doing? Ah, John had been packing to go and see his mother.
He had invited Sherlock, who declined: "I prefer to be alone. I may visit with Mycroft, if I can stand it." And Sherlock had gone to his desk, for all the world absorbed in making notes on a case. Clearly not.
John began again,
'24th December 2011
Don't leave me, even for a day.
You seem to have taken everything of me, I have poured myself into you, like moving water.
Sometimes the city moves around me, abstracting, and I know I don't exist.
In you I exist in the way that other people do: smiles, inside jokes (I've never had those, ever), the minutiae of domestic life.
In a way, it is epic. In a way, it is beautiful.
Yours,
SH'
And then, what is obviously an addendum, added later - how much later? - in a desperate, hurried pen,
'It is the tongue of death looking for a mouth.
Speak with Molly.'
John waits for tears to announce themselves. They threaten to, stinging at the corners of his eyes. But today, he is able to hold them back. Amongst the tangled weeds of sadness, and the bitterness of another lost opportunity to be close with Sherlock, there's the siren song of a mystery.
Speak with Molly?
Of course he will.