Prompt fill: Reichenbach
PROMPT:John tries to commit suicide during the Reichenbach falls period and Mycroft tells him to go to sleep and the world will look better in the morning. It does.
A/N: I'm not sure about the epilogue, tell me if it doesn't work.
I
Three months, John thinks, three months ago he left me. He can feel the wind rustling his hair - it’s gotten long recently. He hasn’t gotten it cut since it happened. Hasn’t seen the need. His face is scrubby, too. He’s shaved, of course. Just not more often than he needs. It’s itchy now, but he doesn’t want to lift his hand to scratch it. He won’t give in. If these will be his last sensations, he will be strong.
The wind is tugging on his clothes too. Even if he stays still it still feels like he’s going a hundred miles an hour. It’s lovely up here. Reminds John of him. Fast paced and overwhelming. Beautiful, the view as well.
His Sherlock was beautiful. He should have told him. Now he never would. John had a lot of things he’s wished he’d told Sherlock. That he made him smile. They he’d been the reason his heart beat faster. That he loved him. Oh, if John could have him back he’d make sure he told Sherlock that every day. But he couldn’t. Sherlock was gone. Moriarty had brought him down. He’d left John on his own. He’d burned John’s heart out, not Sherlock’s. He’d killed John’s heart, leaving him empty and alone.
Dreams of Sherlock haunted him. Sherlock’s smiling face, his posture when he played the violin, his flushed face when he ran down London’s streets. Dreams of Sherlock whirling around a fresh corpse like some unstoppable carousel, lying on the couch talking to his skull, hugging John when he’d something particularly clever. Sherlock over his, pressing lips to skin, hands on hips and flushed complexions, Sherlock’s eyes dilated, his eyelashes fluttering, his breath against John’s neck. Things that would never happen - wouldn’t have happened whether or not Sherlock had died. It hurt - his chest. It hurt constantly. His stomach was always clenched, his throat closed up. He masturbated over Sherlock. Twice. It just made it worse. He cried the whole time.
He’s a disgusting human being.
“John.” He turns his head. Mycroft Holmes. The man who keeps trying to save him. Well, he’s not interested. He takes a step further towards and edge and Mycroft makes a noise like a cry. “No!” he shrieks, jumping over the railing and flinging his hands around John, pulling him into an embrace. They are both crying, John realises. “He loves you, John.”
“Loved.” John hears himself saying, even as he’s walking backwards to the stairs leading down a floor. “And he never did, Mycroft.”
“Does. The world will seem a better place in the morning.”
This gave John pause. Holmes’ don’t just say those things.
II
John wakes incredibly suddenly, wrapping his arms around the person above him in a death grip with a cry of ‘Sherlock’. He’s crying again, coming out of a dream that was so heartbreaking he felt like he might die. How embarrassing for the person who’s holding him, John thought vaguely. He still wasn’t coming to himself, the smell and feel of Sherlock was all around him.
A broken “John” and the person he’s holding grips on to him tight. He knows that voice, that beautiful baritone. The smell and feel of Sherlock was all around him. “You’re gone.” He says and the person holding him is crying too. “Did I jump?” He asks and his companion shakes his head. “You are all I think about,” John croaks, and the person sobbing into his neck gets louder. “I’m sorry,” the person breathes, over and over, and it’s not Sherlock, it can’t be Sherlock, because Sherlock fell and Sherlock is dead. He has died and he is gone and John is left alone and clearly insane. Maybe he should call Mycroft and get him to admit him to a hospital. Maybe he’s already in one.
“I love you.” He says to the man he’s holding, the one in his imagination. And he kisses him, and he looks and feels just like Sherlock, even though he can’t be. “Always,” his pretend Sherlock breathes back and John sobs harder. He can’t breath: a panic attack. “I want you back,” he whines and Sherlock pushes the hair out of his red face and looks deep into his eyes. “I am back, John. I’m not leaving. He’s dead, darling, he’s dead.” And John’s sure he’s hallucinating now, because Sherlock only calls him ‘darling’ in his dreams, like Sherlock’s mother did that time he’d stayed over for Christmas. He rips himself away from Sherlock, angry fire burning in his stomach. He screams and yells things that no mouth should ever produce. Tells his Sherlock to fuck himself, leave him alone to get on with his life, go back to the grave where he belongs, because he’s dead and he’s still hurting John. John wraps himself in a ball and cries all the way to oblivion.
III
John wakes up and cries again - big wracking sobs that shake his whole body. He sits up and promptly vomits into a bucket being provided to him. He closes his eyes as he accepts he really is in a mental institution. He feels a hand stroke his head. He leans into it; he has no more tears to cry. “I missed you.”
“You’re not real.”
“How can I prove that I am?” Sadness in the voice. Desperation.
“Tell me something only we would know.”
Silence. For a long time, silence.
“He hurt my Watson.” His face is being stroked so tenderly.
John looks up at Sherlock with watery eyes. “You’re real.”
“Realer than ever.”
“How?” Of course, John bloody Watson wants to know the secret behind the magic trick.
“It turns out I underestimated my brother, but that is of no importance right now. I want to tell you how sorry I am.”
John nods.
“I almost killed you. I almost killed the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. For that I cannot forgive myself. How can I make it up to you, my darling?” The sincerity in Sherlock’s eyes makes John tear up again.
“Never leave. Don’t you ever leave me again, Sherlock Holmes, because I won’t live through it. Be by my side constantly, because there will never be anyone else to replace you and I’m so sick of being alone all the time.” His voice is steady. His Sherlock was back. Always his.
EPILOGUE
They marry. It seems logical. They are in love with each other. They may be an army doctor-turned-blogger and the world’s only consulting detective but they can bloody well do things traditionally as well. There are more people there than John expected. Despite the fact people assume Sherlock has no friends, he is loved by many people, and John will always stand by the belief that that was the day Sherlock Holmes became a good man.
It is a modest affair - a registry office near the Holmes residence with a few signatures and then an afternoon tea in the stately garden. Mycroft takes a dance with John, much to the guests’ amusement. When he links hands with Greg Lestrade later in the evening John can’t have felt happier for them. Sherlock holds him close, pressing kisses to his head and tracing his fingers. John’s sick on love. When Sherlock pulls him into their suite at his mother’s abode, he believes some consummating is in order.
“Did you ever think about it?”
“I dreamt about it. I didn’t dare think about it more than twice.”
“Think about it now. What are you going to do to me?”
“I’m going to lay you down on the bed, and kiss you until my jaw begins to hurt. I love your mouth, Sherlock. I love all of you. And I’m going to undress you slowly, because even though I love you speeding around our city, I love you slow, as well. And then, I will push my fingers into you, so gently you may well be begging for it. I will take off my clothes and push myself in, holding you as close to me as I can, and I will make love to you in the most beautiful way I can fathom. I want all of your Sherlock. I want you forever.”
He had all of Sherlock, forever.
A/N: I'm not sure about the epilogue, tell me if it doesn't work.
I
Three months, John thinks, three months ago he left me. He can feel the wind rustling his hair - it’s gotten long recently. He hasn’t gotten it cut since it happened. Hasn’t seen the need. His face is scrubby, too. He’s shaved, of course. Just not more often than he needs. It’s itchy now, but he doesn’t want to lift his hand to scratch it. He won’t give in. If these will be his last sensations, he will be strong.
The wind is tugging on his clothes too. Even if he stays still it still feels like he’s going a hundred miles an hour. It’s lovely up here. Reminds John of him. Fast paced and overwhelming. Beautiful, the view as well.
His Sherlock was beautiful. He should have told him. Now he never would. John had a lot of things he’s wished he’d told Sherlock. That he made him smile. They he’d been the reason his heart beat faster. That he loved him. Oh, if John could have him back he’d make sure he told Sherlock that every day. But he couldn’t. Sherlock was gone. Moriarty had brought him down. He’d left John on his own. He’d burned John’s heart out, not Sherlock’s. He’d killed John’s heart, leaving him empty and alone.
Dreams of Sherlock haunted him. Sherlock’s smiling face, his posture when he played the violin, his flushed face when he ran down London’s streets. Dreams of Sherlock whirling around a fresh corpse like some unstoppable carousel, lying on the couch talking to his skull, hugging John when he’d something particularly clever. Sherlock over his, pressing lips to skin, hands on hips and flushed complexions, Sherlock’s eyes dilated, his eyelashes fluttering, his breath against John’s neck. Things that would never happen - wouldn’t have happened whether or not Sherlock had died. It hurt - his chest. It hurt constantly. His stomach was always clenched, his throat closed up. He masturbated over Sherlock. Twice. It just made it worse. He cried the whole time.
He’s a disgusting human being.
“John.” He turns his head. Mycroft Holmes. The man who keeps trying to save him. Well, he’s not interested. He takes a step further towards and edge and Mycroft makes a noise like a cry. “No!” he shrieks, jumping over the railing and flinging his hands around John, pulling him into an embrace. They are both crying, John realises. “He loves you, John.”
“Loved.” John hears himself saying, even as he’s walking backwards to the stairs leading down a floor. “And he never did, Mycroft.”
“Does. The world will seem a better place in the morning.”
This gave John pause. Holmes’ don’t just say those things.
II
John wakes incredibly suddenly, wrapping his arms around the person above him in a death grip with a cry of ‘Sherlock’. He’s crying again, coming out of a dream that was so heartbreaking he felt like he might die. How embarrassing for the person who’s holding him, John thought vaguely. He still wasn’t coming to himself, the smell and feel of Sherlock was all around him.
A broken “John” and the person he’s holding grips on to him tight. He knows that voice, that beautiful baritone. The smell and feel of Sherlock was all around him. “You’re gone.” He says and the person holding him is crying too. “Did I jump?” He asks and his companion shakes his head. “You are all I think about,” John croaks, and the person sobbing into his neck gets louder. “I’m sorry,” the person breathes, over and over, and it’s not Sherlock, it can’t be Sherlock, because Sherlock fell and Sherlock is dead. He has died and he is gone and John is left alone and clearly insane. Maybe he should call Mycroft and get him to admit him to a hospital. Maybe he’s already in one.
“I love you.” He says to the man he’s holding, the one in his imagination. And he kisses him, and he looks and feels just like Sherlock, even though he can’t be. “Always,” his pretend Sherlock breathes back and John sobs harder. He can’t breath: a panic attack. “I want you back,” he whines and Sherlock pushes the hair out of his red face and looks deep into his eyes. “I am back, John. I’m not leaving. He’s dead, darling, he’s dead.” And John’s sure he’s hallucinating now, because Sherlock only calls him ‘darling’ in his dreams, like Sherlock’s mother did that time he’d stayed over for Christmas. He rips himself away from Sherlock, angry fire burning in his stomach. He screams and yells things that no mouth should ever produce. Tells his Sherlock to fuck himself, leave him alone to get on with his life, go back to the grave where he belongs, because he’s dead and he’s still hurting John. John wraps himself in a ball and cries all the way to oblivion.
III
John wakes up and cries again - big wracking sobs that shake his whole body. He sits up and promptly vomits into a bucket being provided to him. He closes his eyes as he accepts he really is in a mental institution. He feels a hand stroke his head. He leans into it; he has no more tears to cry. “I missed you.”
“You’re not real.”
“How can I prove that I am?” Sadness in the voice. Desperation.
“Tell me something only we would know.”
Silence. For a long time, silence.
“He hurt my Watson.” His face is being stroked so tenderly.
John looks up at Sherlock with watery eyes. “You’re real.”
“Realer than ever.”
“How?” Of course, John bloody Watson wants to know the secret behind the magic trick.
“It turns out I underestimated my brother, but that is of no importance right now. I want to tell you how sorry I am.”
John nods.
“I almost killed you. I almost killed the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. For that I cannot forgive myself. How can I make it up to you, my darling?” The sincerity in Sherlock’s eyes makes John tear up again.
“Never leave. Don’t you ever leave me again, Sherlock Holmes, because I won’t live through it. Be by my side constantly, because there will never be anyone else to replace you and I’m so sick of being alone all the time.” His voice is steady. His Sherlock was back. Always his.
EPILOGUE
They marry. It seems logical. They are in love with each other. They may be an army doctor-turned-blogger and the world’s only consulting detective but they can bloody well do things traditionally as well. There are more people there than John expected. Despite the fact people assume Sherlock has no friends, he is loved by many people, and John will always stand by the belief that that was the day Sherlock Holmes became a good man.
It is a modest affair - a registry office near the Holmes residence with a few signatures and then an afternoon tea in the stately garden. Mycroft takes a dance with John, much to the guests’ amusement. When he links hands with Greg Lestrade later in the evening John can’t have felt happier for them. Sherlock holds him close, pressing kisses to his head and tracing his fingers. John’s sick on love. When Sherlock pulls him into their suite at his mother’s abode, he believes some consummating is in order.
“Did you ever think about it?”
“I dreamt about it. I didn’t dare think about it more than twice.”
“Think about it now. What are you going to do to me?”
“I’m going to lay you down on the bed, and kiss you until my jaw begins to hurt. I love your mouth, Sherlock. I love all of you. And I’m going to undress you slowly, because even though I love you speeding around our city, I love you slow, as well. And then, I will push my fingers into you, so gently you may well be begging for it. I will take off my clothes and push myself in, holding you as close to me as I can, and I will make love to you in the most beautiful way I can fathom. I want all of your Sherlock. I want you forever.”
He had all of Sherlock, forever.