032. Sunset.
Title: I can't. Not anymore.
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG-13; TW: Suicide attempt
Summary: Kink!meme prompt: Too Much: John is alone again. While he may want to believe Sherlock is alive, he knows he's not. John goes to the same building that Sherlock jumped from and is about to jump himself... Sherlock stops him.
A/N: Cleaned up and reset a bit for the journal page & my prompting table. :3
Every six months, on that life-changing day, John visits Sherlock's grave at 3pm like clockwork. Sometimes he'll visit in between, if he's got too much on his mind, but the soldier in him tells John that he needs to move on.
He can't.
It's been two years since Sherlock jumped, and John still finds himself grieving, still cursing the nightmares that plague his sleep - though they are much different now - still forcing himself to carry on and return to the monotonous life he'd had before...
Before what, though, John would find himself wondering, the niggling doubts eating away at his brain in the middle of the night when not even a strong cup of tea can soothe the aches and pains of it all. Before he was lured in by insurmountable intelligence? Before he could travel the world outside a military command unit? Before he found love? That's what got to him the worst. Love. John always argued, always told people he wasn't gay - and he wasn't. It was just Sherlock. Only Sherlock. Now Sherlock's gone, and John has to hold on to everything he's ever wanted to say. Just in case he comes back...
John can't stay at 221B anymore. Too many memories, too much stuff, too many unsolved cases lingering around the flat. He packs his things, kisses Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, and takes off. He doesn't know where yet, just tells the driver to keep going forward. However, when the taxi reaches it's limit, John finds himself feeling even more strange than when he did back home. So he returns, because he has nowhere else to go, nowhere that can break the invisible tether that keeps John at Baker Street.
He tries to work again, return to surgery. It's harder than he thought. Every injury, every bruise and cut and scrape reminds him of Sherlock, reminds him of the hundreds of dozens of times he's had to patch up the spindly detective after going a little too deep within a case. John does his best to get on, but no less than a week after he returns, he leaves again.
Lestrade attempted to pay a visit. He looks no better than John - tired, ragged and worn. He tells John that the evidence against Sherlock points to the only obvious conclusion, but the way he worked, the way Sherlock moved through and did things that not even the highest paid detectives would do; Lestrade feels responsible for letting an innocent man fall. They console each other in the only way they know how - silence and a cup of tea. Lestrade leaves soon after, and John can't help but let the tears flow once more.
On the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, John doesn't visit his grave.
.o.
3:00 PM.
He looks at his watch, scanning the tops of wet tombstones. The rain patters down gently as he tries to light a cigarette. Dark curls are damp and cold against his forehead as he draws in a heavy breath.
3:01 PM.
He's late. He's never late.
Sherlock paces a bit, flicking the rolled tobacco aside, too wet to get much more out of it, his shoes sloshing around in the mud as the rain starts to pound harder. Of course it would rain, because even Mother Nature has a thing for cliches, Sherlock thinks. He jams his hands inside his pockets, pacing a bit more, waiting a bit longer. Maybe the tube is backed up, maybe John woke up late, maybe he's moved on...
3:03 PM.
Sherlock races for the flat.
Of course Mrs. Hudson is shocked right out of her shoes, fainting at the doorway. Sherlock carries her up to 221B, hoping John would be there to help.
He isn't.
Sherlock lays Mrs. Hudson out on his bed, and looks. The flat is mostly as he'd left it three years ago, which says something for John's sentimentality and grief. There's more dishes in the sink, however, John obviously disposing of some of Sherlock's more gruesome experiments. There's a few pay stubs sitting on the table, the most recent only having a week's worth of pay. All the bins are empty, save for the one in John's room, which is full of tissues and crumpled bits of paper - John's handwriting, simple words, small paragraphs; each page crammed with multiple poems. Sherlock returns to his own room, and now that his eyes are open he sees.
The letter. The signature. The goodbye.
6:02 PM.
The note was written three hours ago.
Sherlock fears - and he never fears - that he may be too late.
.o.
The London skyline is starting to fade, swirling pools of orange, pink, and blue coat the tops of each building in a warm hue. The clouds, heavy and grey with rain, linger but do not let a single drop fall. They are waiting.
Waiting for me...
John hovers at the edge of St. Bart's. He's been there for several hours, just standing. Rain fell earlier, to mask the tears that soaked his cheeks, but it's paused now, as the sun sets before him like a parting gift, one last sight of beauty before it's all over.
There are only a few people around, but they do not notice John, standing at the curb between life and death. He was even a little surprised that Mycroft or "Anthea" hadn't stopped him on his walk there - surely the CCTV camera's would've caught him, but then again now that Sherlock and John were no longer, what good would it be for Mycroft to watch the helpless, limping ex-army doctor?
The sunset starts to fade, deep blue replacing bright gold. John closes his eyes, and takes one last breath of air. He steps forward, the hesitation having dissipated.
He is ready.
"John!"
No...
Sherlock takes John's hand, whipping him back away from the ledge. The doctor's eyes are wide, his breath hitched in his throat as the detective simply holds his gaze, shaky breaths coming from his own mouth.
John blinks, trying to tell himself this isn't Sherlock, it's someone else and you're seeing Sherlock, Sherlock's dead, been dead, still dead -
"It's me, John. I'm here."
Sherlock's words ring through John's mind, deep and soothing, and all he can do is cling to familiar woolen coat lapels and cry.
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG-13; TW: Suicide attempt
Summary: Kink!meme prompt: Too Much: John is alone again. While he may want to believe Sherlock is alive, he knows he's not. John goes to the same building that Sherlock jumped from and is about to jump himself... Sherlock stops him.
A/N: Cleaned up and reset a bit for the journal page & my prompting table. :3
Every six months, on that life-changing day, John visits Sherlock's grave at 3pm like clockwork. Sometimes he'll visit in between, if he's got too much on his mind, but the soldier in him tells John that he needs to move on.
He can't.
It's been two years since Sherlock jumped, and John still finds himself grieving, still cursing the nightmares that plague his sleep - though they are much different now - still forcing himself to carry on and return to the monotonous life he'd had before...
Before what, though, John would find himself wondering, the niggling doubts eating away at his brain in the middle of the night when not even a strong cup of tea can soothe the aches and pains of it all. Before he was lured in by insurmountable intelligence? Before he could travel the world outside a military command unit? Before he found love? That's what got to him the worst. Love. John always argued, always told people he wasn't gay - and he wasn't. It was just Sherlock. Only Sherlock. Now Sherlock's gone, and John has to hold on to everything he's ever wanted to say. Just in case he comes back...
John can't stay at 221B anymore. Too many memories, too much stuff, too many unsolved cases lingering around the flat. He packs his things, kisses Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, and takes off. He doesn't know where yet, just tells the driver to keep going forward. However, when the taxi reaches it's limit, John finds himself feeling even more strange than when he did back home. So he returns, because he has nowhere else to go, nowhere that can break the invisible tether that keeps John at Baker Street.
He tries to work again, return to surgery. It's harder than he thought. Every injury, every bruise and cut and scrape reminds him of Sherlock, reminds him of the hundreds of dozens of times he's had to patch up the spindly detective after going a little too deep within a case. John does his best to get on, but no less than a week after he returns, he leaves again.
Lestrade attempted to pay a visit. He looks no better than John - tired, ragged and worn. He tells John that the evidence against Sherlock points to the only obvious conclusion, but the way he worked, the way Sherlock moved through and did things that not even the highest paid detectives would do; Lestrade feels responsible for letting an innocent man fall. They console each other in the only way they know how - silence and a cup of tea. Lestrade leaves soon after, and John can't help but let the tears flow once more.
On the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, John doesn't visit his grave.
.o.
3:00 PM.
He looks at his watch, scanning the tops of wet tombstones. The rain patters down gently as he tries to light a cigarette. Dark curls are damp and cold against his forehead as he draws in a heavy breath.
3:01 PM.
He's late. He's never late.
Sherlock paces a bit, flicking the rolled tobacco aside, too wet to get much more out of it, his shoes sloshing around in the mud as the rain starts to pound harder. Of course it would rain, because even Mother Nature has a thing for cliches, Sherlock thinks. He jams his hands inside his pockets, pacing a bit more, waiting a bit longer. Maybe the tube is backed up, maybe John woke up late, maybe he's moved on...
3:03 PM.
Sherlock races for the flat.
Of course Mrs. Hudson is shocked right out of her shoes, fainting at the doorway. Sherlock carries her up to 221B, hoping John would be there to help.
He isn't.
Sherlock lays Mrs. Hudson out on his bed, and looks. The flat is mostly as he'd left it three years ago, which says something for John's sentimentality and grief. There's more dishes in the sink, however, John obviously disposing of some of Sherlock's more gruesome experiments. There's a few pay stubs sitting on the table, the most recent only having a week's worth of pay. All the bins are empty, save for the one in John's room, which is full of tissues and crumpled bits of paper - John's handwriting, simple words, small paragraphs; each page crammed with multiple poems. Sherlock returns to his own room, and now that his eyes are open he sees.
The letter. The signature. The goodbye.
6:02 PM.
The note was written three hours ago.
Sherlock fears - and he never fears - that he may be too late.
.o.
The London skyline is starting to fade, swirling pools of orange, pink, and blue coat the tops of each building in a warm hue. The clouds, heavy and grey with rain, linger but do not let a single drop fall. They are waiting.
Waiting for me...
John hovers at the edge of St. Bart's. He's been there for several hours, just standing. Rain fell earlier, to mask the tears that soaked his cheeks, but it's paused now, as the sun sets before him like a parting gift, one last sight of beauty before it's all over.
There are only a few people around, but they do not notice John, standing at the curb between life and death. He was even a little surprised that Mycroft or "Anthea" hadn't stopped him on his walk there - surely the CCTV camera's would've caught him, but then again now that Sherlock and John were no longer, what good would it be for Mycroft to watch the helpless, limping ex-army doctor?
The sunset starts to fade, deep blue replacing bright gold. John closes his eyes, and takes one last breath of air. He steps forward, the hesitation having dissipated.
He is ready.
"John!"
No...
Sherlock takes John's hand, whipping him back away from the ledge. The doctor's eyes are wide, his breath hitched in his throat as the detective simply holds his gaze, shaky breaths coming from his own mouth.
John blinks, trying to tell himself this isn't Sherlock, it's someone else and you're seeing Sherlock, Sherlock's dead, been dead, still dead -
"It's me, John. I'm here."
Sherlock's words ring through John's mind, deep and soothing, and all he can do is cling to familiar woolen coat lapels and cry.