Sherlock (BBC) fic - i know you well enough to know you can't be alone
Title: i know you well enough to know you can't be alone
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade
Word count: 5948
Rating: PG-13
Warning: some violent imagery, some cursing, John being John, and character death sort of? Trigger warning for suicide.
Summary: John wakes three months after Reichenbach and everything is back to the way it was. He is back in 221B Baker St, the Fall never happened, and Sherlock is alive. It can't possibly be real. Can it?
Author's note: this fic was written for the Sherlock Reversebang and it was inspired by the ABSOLUTELY AMAZING art by a_denikina. Make sure to go look at the piece and drool over its majesty. And if you like this fic at all, go give her a slow clap, because it wouldn't exist without her talent. And last but not least, thank you to my beta, you know who you are! Title of the fic comes from the song The Cold, the Dark, and the Silence by Sea Wolf.
i know you well enough to know you can’t be alone
The nightmare always starts the same.
Standing on the sidewalk. Looking four stories up. The world seeming to spin around him, a confusing blur. The only two focal points the hard bite of the mobile digging into his palm and the sight of his best friend on the edge of the roof.
Sherlock’s voice shakes over the line, and John’s world shakes with it.
“That’s what people do isn’t it? Leave a note?”
The bottom drops out of John’s stomach. Words jumble up in his throat, struggling to be voiced.
“Leave a note when?” are the words that finally spill out. Useless, useless, that wouldn’t help, that wouldn’t stop this.
And then the two words that always stopped his heart, the ones he wanted to stop the most, the ones he never could.
“Goodbye, John.”
And here the nightmare differed from the memory. John remained frozen, transfixed, as Sherlock fell through the air. Time seemed to turn into molasses, and Sherlock fell in aching slow motion, every single detail burning itself into John’s mind without remorse as he stood uselessly by.
Then, with sudden frightening speed, Sherlock’s body hit the ground, with a sickening crunch. Immediately, blood began to spread with creeping tendrils, crawling and squirming outward from the body. They reached John’s feet with alarming speed, soaking through his shoes and socks until his feet were coated in Sherlock’s blood.
And still, John couldn’t move. No matter how hard he fought to take even one step forward, he couldn’t. It was if his feet had been nailed to the ground. As if he would be trapped here forever, staring at the the body of the best man he had ever known while that same man’s blood swirled around his feet, squelched between his toes. Nausea and horror combined in his throat in a vile mixture.
But John was cognizant enough, had had this nightmare enough times to know one more part was coming before it would end. One last horrifying moment would come before he could wake.
Sherlock’s head rolled to face him.
Stark red was splattered across his pale, pale face. It did nothing to hide his eyes, endlessly staring at John. They were full of accusation that felt like a knife in the back.
- why didn’t you see how could you not have seen you were my best friend and you didn’t see why did you leave I needed you and you weren’t there why didn’t you see why didn’t you help me why -
And John woke up, his gasps for breath sounding more like sobs.
But that was the thing with this nightmare. That final image (all that red, that pale, pale face, those eyes) and those final thoughts (-why why why why-) never truly left him. They were always there, seared into his mind.
John clenched his eyes shut, gulping back his tears, and dug his head into his pillow. He lay there for what felt like an eternity, fists clenched in sheets and shaking, until he felt steady enough to sit up. He wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, never could after that particular dream. Time for John Watson's Nightmare Recovery Routine.
Get up. Pull on robe. Walk to kitchen. Put water in kettle. Set to boil. Take down teabags. Brew tea. Walk to sitting room. Sit in chair. Sip tea. Stare into space. Slip slowly into madness.
John chuckled darkly at that last morbid thought, taking a sip of his tea. He walked to his chair, sat down, and froze.
Across from him was a grey armchair, a violin bow resting on its arms. To his left was the fireplace, the skull leering on the mantle and the Cluedo board stabbed to the wall beside it. The yellow spray-painted face grinned down at him, its cheerfulness incongruous in the dismal lighting.
It was 221B Baker St, exactly the way it was before the Fall. Before John's life as he knew it had ended on the sidewalk outside St. Barts.
It wasn’t possible. The room was littered with Sherlock’s possessions, things John distinctly remembered packing up in the weeks after his death. Case files were strewn haphazardly across the fact, in complete defiance of the fact that Lestrade had come by personally and collected them all. Back in the kitchen, Sherlock’s chemistry equipment was on the table, although John remembered donating it all to a nearby school.
His hands perfectly steady, John put down his tea before marching to the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. He paused in front of the door, fists clenching, took a deep breath, and threw it open.
John had always found it a little infuriating, Sherlock’s habit of making a complete mess of the shared areas. When he had first moved in, he had just thought that Sherlock was a messy person and figured that he would end up being the one doing most of the tidying up and, although it was sometimes frustrating to come home after a long shift at the surgery to find the kitchen a disaster zone of chemicals and random body parts (eyeballs in the kettle why, he just wanted some tea, was that so much to ask?), he had been perfectly fine with accepting the responsibility.
Until he had finally seen Sherlock’s room one day when he was searching everywhere for his once more missing laptop. It seemed to periodically sprout legs and wander off, and Sherlock was always less than helpful in locating it.
After exhausting every other place he could think of, he had decided to try Sherlock’s room, darkly promising that if it was in there and Sherlock hadn’t told him he had taken it, John would not be responsible for his actions.
He had opened the door to the bedroom, and stood there staring in stupefied silence for a moment. Because the room was clean, fastidiously clean. No dust, no random objects, everything in its proper place. It managed to make John’s room look a little untidy, which was a quite a feat. And of course, it was totally bereft of anything even related to a laptop.
John had gone back to the kitchen where Sherlock was peering through his microscope. John stood beside him, waiting patiently until Sherlock had looked up at him with a mildly inquiring look.
“Your room is very tidy.” John had said, not really knowing how to broach the obviously much needed discussion of Sherlock’s living habits.
Sherlock didn’t reply verbally, instead using one of his many looks, the one John had mentally translated as ‘dear god, can you truly be this dense, how have you survived this long, darwinism is obviously failing’. It was one most often directed at various Scotland Yarders, though Anderson seemed to get it the most (John never did get a straight answer for why they hated each other so much).
John had decided to try again. “Is there any particular reason why? What with the state of the rest of the flat, I thought you’d be more comfortable stewing in your own filth. It seems to be your natural habitat.”
Sherlock’s look had morphed into another one he used quite often. John had translated that one to mean ‘do not question my mysterious ways, foolish mortal, as your tiny mind could not possibly understand them’. John had given it up as a bad job and went to find some food. If he couldn’t check his email, he could at least eat something.
Which is of course when he found his laptop, in the fridge, nestled between some containers of take out and a bag of fingers.
It had been a strange day.
And now here he was, on a day that was promising to be so much stranger, staring into a room that shouldn’t look the way it did, at all the things inside that couldn’t be there.
The Edgar Allan Poe portrait on the wall. The meticulously made up bed. Not a trace of dust or dirt to be seen.
And it was totally and completely impossible.
John walked slowly into the room, almost unwilling, lest he shatter the illusion. Because this couldn’t possibly be real. All of Sherlock’s things were gone, packed up in boxes and taken by Mycroft to who knew where.
(That had been a hard day, one of the hardest. Packing away Sherlock’s room had seemed to make it finally real, to drive home the fact that Sherlock was never coming back, gone forever. John had spent hours in there, going over every knick knack with care, placing them gently in their boxes. Then he had gone out and got piss drunk.
Mycroft had come the next day and collected everything. John, hungover and heartsick, had vowed to never get that drunk again. He wouldn’t become reliant on the drink. He refused to turn into Harry or his father.)
He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing his hand over the cover, half searching for some hint of residual warmth from Sherlock. Which would have been a rare enough find even when Sherlock had been alive, considering how often he slept in his actual bed (not very).
Sherlock was dead. He had taken his own life three months ago. John had been there. He had searched for his pulse and found nothing. He had gone to Sherlock’s funeral, fallen apart over his grave, packed away his entire life, and done his best to move on. There was no way that any of what he was seeing could be true. He hadn’t even been back to Baker Street in two months.
And yet, it obviously was real. Either that, or John was having some kind of psychotic episode, which was possible but extremely unlikely. Maybe some kind of excruciatingly lucid dream? Had he actually woken after his nightmare?
It couldn’t be real, that was the important thing to remember. Indulging the almost nauseating surge of hope in chest would only lead to disaster and disappointment.
Either he had finally lost it, or was still dreaming, or someone was playing an exceptionally cruel joke. In any case, he needed to find out what was going on. And John knew just the place to start.
*
After a quick stop upstairs to his own room for a change of clothes and his gun (whatever was going on here he might end up needing it), John left 221B for 221A. He tapped politely on the door, and attempted to wait patiently.
When Mrs. Hudson finally answered her door, wrapped in her robe and blinking blearily, John was pacing. Looking at his former landlady’s tired face, he guilty realized that it was probably close to three in the morning. She really shouldn’t have to deal with his wild imaginings right now.
“John? Is everything alright?”
John opened his mouth to speak, and paused. He hadn’t really thought about what he would say and it only seemed to occur to him now how anything he said would sound. Well, nothing for it but to go forward. If he seemed more than a little mad the worst that would happen was more therapy.
“I’m sorry to wake you so late Mrs. Hudson, and this is going to sound odd, but I need to ask you a question.”
Mrs. Hudson stepped closer, her face worried. “Of course dear, what is it?”
John took a deep breath. It was now or never. “I was just wondering...where Sherlock is.”
There was a pause, the entire world seeming to fall silent in anticipation of Mrs. Hudson’s reply. And then the tense hush was gone as quick as it had come, broken by her surprised laugh.
“Oh, is that all? He’s down at the Yard, talking to the Inspector about your case. I thought he would have told you, but you did seem quite tired when you came in, dear. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, love, don’t worry.” And she gave him a cheeky wink.
It was if the ground beneath him had disappeared.
“What?” He somehow managed to breathe out the word despite his throat’s best efforts to clog up.
“He’s at the Yard. He’ll be back soon, don’t worry.” Concern returned to Mrs. Hudson’s face. “Are you sure you’re alright John?”
John scraped himself together enough to reassure her. He plastered a smile on his face and hoped it looked more real than it felt. “Yes, sorry, I was just worried is all. I was pretty out of it earlier.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded, though she didn’t look entirely convinced. “Well, alright then. You should get some more sleep, love, you look a little peaky.”
John let out a little laugh, knowing it sounded slightly hysterical. “Yes, I’ll just head back up. Thank you.”
Mrs. Hudson looked at him for a moment longer, then bid him goodnight, closing her door. John remained where he was, listening to her footsteps retreat further into her flat. In a daze, he leaned back against the wall and finally let his shaky knees give way, lowering himself to the floor.
It couldn’t be. Sherlock couldn’t be at the Yard, he couldn’t be talking to Lestrade, he couldn’t be taking cases, he couldn’t be making sure an exhausted John got home alright, he couldn’t be doing any of those things because he was dead, he had died right in front of John, bleeding out across the pavement, he was dead, he was fucking dead.
Distantly John realized he was hyperventilating and lowered his head between his knees, trying to calm down.
Sherlock was dead, yes. This was an undeniable fact of the world as much as John wished it was not. Just as he knew the sun would rise and the earth was round, he knew that Sherlock was dead.
And yet it seemed he was not dead. Because Mrs. Hudson would never lie to him about it. She had been devastated by Sherlock’s death, she wouldn’t play into some kind of farce. She would never do something so cruel.
So this couldn’t be some prank. And it obviously wasn’t reality. Which left either a delusion or a dream.
Which meant that he needed to go to the source. He needed to find Sherlock. And he already knew where to start.
John pulled himself to his feet. He just stood for a moment, breathing deeply, before pulling himself together and settling into the role of the soldier, the one thing he was sure of here. Executing a perfect about face, he marched out the door and set off in search of a cab.
*
When John finally arrived at Scotland Yard (who knew it would be so hard to find a cab this time of night?), he had to fight off a wave of nostalgia. So many times he and Sherlock had come here, riding the high of solving a case. Sherlock would always stride in, demanding all attention be turned to him as he outlined exactly what was going on, pointing out all the little things the detectives had missed. Then, his brilliant monologue (and often insults) delivered, he would sweep back out, just as quickly and purposefully as he came. It had seemed like everyone had been helpless to do anything but stare in the face of the whirlwind that had been Sherlock Holmes. John had been just as helpless.
He had last been to the Yard two months ago, delivering one last case file he had found buried among Sherlock’s things. He had wanted to give it back to Lestrade, see how he was coping. It had been an ugly surprise to find that Lestrade was not there, and would not be for the near future, as he was on probation until his record could be reviewed in light of Sherlock’s involvement and his being a (supposed) fake. It had snapped John out of his fog of grief, waking him up to the fact that he had not been the only one to love Sherlock and other people were just as affected by his death.
Ever since then he and Lestrade had seen each other every week, frequenting a cafe near Lestrade’s place. They mostly talked about inconsequential things, avoiding anything of importance, but it was nice having someone to talk to. He knew Lestrade felt the same, as the dark circles beneath his eyes had started to lighten lately.
Now, as he walked into the Yard and headed towards Lestrade’s office, John wondered what this illusion was going to throw at him. If Lestrade would look just as tired. If he would look better. If Sherlock would be there with him.
John had not been idle during the cab ride over. He had asked the cabby some questions, trying to see if anything about Sherlock or Moriarty had been in the news. The cabby had just given him a blank look before apparently deciding he was drunk and ignoring him. As far as John could tell, Moriarty may not exist in this world at all, and if he did, he certainly had not come after Sherlock. So the delusion/dream theory was looking more and more likely. But why? Why would his brain decide to invent this elaborate fantasy?
And of course, there was still the hope clinging tenaciously to his heart that he couldn’t quite quash. The hope that said maybe this wasn’t a dream. Maybe this was real, and all that come before (the Fall, Sherlock’s suicide, the hours of grief) had been some nightmare that only took place in John’s mind. Maybe Sherlock was really here, healthy and vibrant, solving cases with his mad genius, and coming home to John.
Stranger things had happened. Right?
Stepping onto the lift, John tried to ignore the lump in his throat as he pressed Lestrade’s floor.
All too soon, he was standing outside Lestrade’s office. He stopped there for a moment, trying to fortify himself. Whether this was a delusion or a dream (or reality, what if all this was real?), there was a possibility Sherlock would be on the other side of the door. Not the nightmare spectre that John had become acquainted with lately, but a living, breathing Sherlock. Dream or not, he wasn’t sure he could handle that.
The choice was taken out of his hands when the door abruptly opened.
Lestrade stood in front of him, juggling a pile of papers and a couple of mugs, a pastry sticking out of his mouth. He let out a series of muffled sounds that John assumed was supposed to speech. Smiling, John obligingly took the stack of papers so Lestrade could take out the pastry and speak unimpeded.
Lestrade swallowed his bite of pastry and cleared his throat before trying to talk again. “ ‘Lo John. If you came looking for Sherlock, you just missed him. Left not ten minutes ago.”
John dazedly thought that he should be getting used to this feeling by now. The world shaking shock, like sudden lightning out of a clear sky. No matter how many times he felt it (and he seemed to be going for a record tonight), it always blindsided him.
“Ten minutes you said? Do you know where he was headed?”
Lestrade shrugged, taking a sip from one of mugs and making a disgusted face. “I didn’t ask, but I assumed he was going home. Though knowing him...”
John nodded. Saying Sherlock was unpredictable was like saying the ocean was quite large. Understatement to the point of idiocy.
Lestrade was frowning at him now. “You alright John?”
John realized he was still nodding in some kind of daze, and also that he had been standing there for a while in stupefied silence. “Yeah, fine. I’m going to see if I can catch him up. See you, Greg.”
He pressed the papers at Lestrade’s chest, forcing him to make an undignified scramble to keep a hold of them all. Lestrade’s sarcastic “Ta.” barely registered as John went back the way he had come.
By the time he reached the end of the hallway and turned towards the lift, his pace had increased to a run. The thought of being so close to Sherlock, to seeing him, hearing him, and missing him, was unbearable. It didn’t matter anymore if this was a dream or a fantasy or even reality, John just needed to see Sherlock again.
He couldn’t miss his chance. Not this time.
*
He ended up searching the building for half an hour before giving up. Sherlock was long gone. If he was ever here.
Of course, the simplest solution would be to head back to 221B. Sherlock would eventually show up back there. But really, what was the point?
What was he even doing, running around in the middle of the night, chasing a figment? People kept telling him Sherlock was here, Sherlock was alive and fine, but John had yet to see him. He had no tangible evidence beyond some physical objects, which could have been easily placed there.
He had probably lost his mind. All of this was only happening in his head while his physical body sat in some padded room somewhere. Maybe his mind was trying to make a fantasy world where Sherlock had never died in an attempt to save what was left of his sanity. Except for whatever reason it couldn’t recreate the man himself. Too vibrant to be fully realized by any delusion. It would just figure that even in a perfect world, Sherlock was still gone.
John limped down the street towards home, feeling Sherlock’s absence like a wound.
“John?”
He whirled, gun at the ready, before he even recognized the voice.
Sherlock stood before him. He was wearing the damn coat and scarf that he never went without. His hair was tousled, his eyes sharp and worried. He looked a little tired, a little gaunt, as if he hadn’t seen a good meal or a bed for a couple of days. And he was completely and utterly breathtaking.
John lowered the gun slowly, tucking it back into his trousers. He swallowed heavily. “Sherlock?” he barely recognized his voice, it was shaking so badly.
Sherlock nodded slowly, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. They flitted up and down John’s body, taking in clues. Whatever deductions he reached intensified his worry, his brow creasing further.
“Are you alright?”
John didn’t answer, ignoring the note of demand in Sherlock’s voice (Sherlock’s voice). Instead, he stepped closer until he was right in front of Sherlock, close enough to feel him breathing (he was breathing). He lifted his hand up to Sherlock’s face, hesitating, feeling his breath against his fingers, before gently touching his cheek.
It was warm.
Choking, he cupped Sherlock’s cheek, stroking down his face to his throat. Sherlock’s pulse thudded away under his touch. He was alive.
Then he threw his arms around Sherlock, his miraculous friend returned from the dead, trying to get his breathing under control. After a few beats of confused silence on Sherlock’s part, his arms came up around John, one hand gently tangling in his hair while the other awkwardly patted his back. John chuckled, still breathing raggedly, and ducked his head into his shoulder.
In that moment, it didn’t matter if this was a dream or reality. It didn’t matter, even if John was locked up somewhere in a straitjacket and not allowed pointy objects. All that mattered was the man in his arms, confused and awkward, but oh, so very, very alive.
*
Once John was finished with his little emotional breakdown, he pulled back and declared that they were heading home. Sherlock eyed him, then nodded imperiously like it had been his idea and marched off to find a cab. John followed more sedately, his hands curled behind his back. He was trying very hard not to blush or grin like a loon.
The cab ride home was an exercise in silence. Sherlock stared at him the entire time, unflinchingly. All the focussed attention was a little much for John’s nerves and he started to pick nervously at the seat. After a few minutes of this, Sherlock’s fingers had rested gently on the back of hand, stilling its movement. John immediately looked out the window, fighting the heat from his cheeks. Sherlock’s fingers stayed atop his for the rest of the ride.
When they arrived, Sherlock tucked his fingers into the cuff of John’s jacket, pulling him behind him and up the stairs.
As soon as they entered 221B, John collapsed in his chair with a deep sigh. Sherlock walked behind him, shrugging off his coat. Unable to resist, John twisted in his seat, following him with his eyes, knowing Sherlock noticed. But John couldn’t help himself, he had to keep Sherlock in sight. It felt like he might shatter if he didn’t.
All thought of discovering the truth of what was happening had disappeared. Sherlock’s presence, his touch and his voice had completely obliterated them. It seemed like life had been breathed back into the world. Everything seemed to be more colourful, more vibrant. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he could stand straighter, breathe easier.
Did it really matter if this was all real, if Sherlock was here?
John sighed angrily, forcing himself to look away. Of course it mattered , he couldn’t just abandon the real world because Sherlock wasn’t there.
But the thought was enough to give him pause.
Sherlock appeared back in front of him, sans coat and scarf. He settled into his chair, and studied John over steepled fingers.
John mustered a smile and nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. “I’m fine Sherlock, stop worrying. You’ll give yourself an ulcer.”
Sherlock seemed unconvinced, but said nothing.
Well, if he couldn’t convince him maybe he could distract him
“What were you talking to Lestrade about?”
Sherlock adopted one of the looks from his lexicon, the one John had translated as ‘you think you’re being clever but you’re really, really not’. When John’s only reply to Sherlock’s mute disdain was a slight widening of his smile, Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.
“I had to go and explain it all to him. He and his “team” had missed everything of importance. Honestly, if they are the best this city has to offer by way of detectives, I weep for humanity. Murderers and thieves will run rampant in the streets, the country will collapse, society as we know it will cease to function. Maybe I should make slideshows to explain later cases. They should be able to understand bullet points and small words. Very small words. You usually interrupt me before now.”
John shook off his Sherlock induced haze, sure he had a dopey grin plastered on his face. “What?”
Sherlock cocked his head, and narrowed his eyes. It was his ‘you are hiding something and I will find out what it is just you wait’ look. “You never let me go on that long about the ineptitude of Scotland Yard.”
John ducked his head, knowing trying to hide his expression was useless. “Maybe I’m just...happy to see you.” His throat choked up before he could say anything more.
When John finally looked up, Sherlock’s expression was indescribable. It was the only look of his that John was never able to translate. After careful observation, he had tentatively labelled simply as ‘his’.
They had never talked about this thing between them, never acknowledged it aloud. It was the source of this particular look of Sherlock’s, the reason why John catalogued Sherlock’s different expressions in such detail, the need that drove their constant small touches that spoke worlds of feeling, constantly hovering on the brink of something more. Neither needed to say it to know.
But why hadn’t they said it, John wondered with sudden frustration. Even if it didn’t need to be spoken, even if they both knew, it seemed so foolish to have waited in silence when they could have been together, truly together. What, exactly, had they been waiting for?
Because John knew the feeling now, of standing over Sherlock’s grave with the thought of what could have been a bitter ache and all the words never spoken jumbled in his chest. He couldn’t do that again, let what he wanted go without a word. But neither could he force himself to say it.
Instead, he retreated again, cursing himself for a coward. He looked away, ignoring the way Sherlock’s hands clenched on his knees for a moment.
“So what do you have on the go tonight? And by that I mean you are eating something and going to sleep.” Settling into the role of exasperated caretaker was a relief after all the excitement and wild emotional upheaval of the night, even though it felt odd after months of grief.
Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and slouched down into his chair. “Yes, mother.”
John snorted, levering himself out of his chair. “Is there in particular you want, oh wayward child? I’m not sure what we have in.”
Sherlock smiled, the honest one that always made John feel warm. “Whatever is there will be fine.”
John went to the fridge, scanning the semi barren shelves. Ah, leftover takeout, always a good late night meal. Sometimes he wondered how they hadn’t gotten scurvy yet.
As he dished out the food and popped it in the microwave, Sherlock’s voice reached him. He had moved to lean in the doorway to the kitchen. “Lestrade gave us a new case to look over. It’s a cold case, but it doesn’t look completely dull.”
John hmmed, taking the food out of the microwave and turning towards Sherlock, and felt like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.
Nothing about the scene had changed. Sherlock was still leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. There were shadows under his eyes and an irrepressible smirk stretching his lips. He looked unbearably satisfied with himself and the world and he has stunningly beautiful.
Fuck it. It didn’t matter if this was real, it didn’t matter that they had never spoken about it. All that mattered was that Sherlock was here, alive and healthy, standing in front of him through some twist of fate. He had learned his lesson about not taking what he was given when he could.
John marched over to Sherlock, took his face in his hands, and kissed him.
Sherlock’s arms were immediately around him, one hand stroking across his shoulders while the other came to rest in the small of John’s back. John tangled a hand in his hair, tilting his head to a better angle, and letting his other hand play along Sherlock’s clavicle. John nipped at his lower lip, eliciting a gasp. He used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, licking into Sherlock’s mouth.
When they finally broke apart, they were both panting. Sherlock smiled, leaning his forehead against John’s. His breath brushed across John’s lips.
Sherlock chuckled. “I thought you’d never do that. I was getting tired of waiting so long.”
John made an affronted noise, ignoring the twisting sensation in his gut. “Why did I have to make the first move? You were more than capable of it, which you just made abundantly clear.”
Sherlock just smirked and very deliberately groped John’s arse.
*
After a lot of making out (a slightly embarrassing amount, John hadn’t spent this much time just kissing since he was a teenager), Sherlock finally ate some food. This led to even more kissing. Finally, John demanded that Sherlock head to bed, to which he responded with a frighteningly intense leer. John insisted it was for sleeping purposes only, though some more snogging happened along the way.
When Sherlock was at last under the covers, John left him to it with a few lingering kisses. Sherlock gave a disappointed pout of epic proportions, but John had long ago prided himself on being immune to those.
He shut the door gently, leaning his head against it. It felt like his smile was trying to split his face, it was so wide. He turned to head up to his own room, his lips tingling pleasantly, when he spotted a new file on the table. It must be the one that Sherlock had mentioned, the cold case. Curious, John ambled over and idly flipped the cover open.
He stopped, then flipped the page. Then the next and the next and the next, with increasing desperation. He flipped through the entire file, and it didn’t change.
He couldn’t read it. The pages were covered in nonsense symbols, swirls and lines, in no language. Not wanting to believe it, he strode over to the desk and cracked open one of the many books.
It was the same, page after page covered in meaningless symbols. No matter what he checked (medicine bottles, advertisements, the telly, the milk jug), they were all the same. Covered in nonsense.
He knew what this meant, he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. He had managed to forget, for a few blissful moments, with Sherlock. Forget there was a possibility all of this wasn’t real. All that had mattered was Sherlock, his hands and his lips. But there was no denying it now.
John was dreaming. This was all a lie.
And it all made sense now didn’t it? Moriarty’s absence, the Fall never happening, Sherlock appearing right when he needed him the most. It was all perfect, seeming tailor made to make him stay here.
For a second, he considered it. Staying. Ignoring the truth and keeping on living the lie. But staying here in some happy dream world with a facsimile of the man he loved, it was an insult to Sherlock’s memory. And even if it wasn’t, John wouldn’t be able to bear it here, now that he knew. He would know that every moment was a lie, engineered by his own mind.
He had to go. But how to leave a dream?
As if drawn by a magnet, his gaze travelled across the room, landing on his gun, lying by the couch seemingly innocent.
Yes. Yes, that would do.
He walked over, picked it up, felt the weight of the gun in his palm. He looked back to Sherlock’s door, debated going to look at him just one last time, before deciding against it. He couldn’t. If he went back, looked at him, he might lose his resolve. If he was doing this, he had to do it now.
He plodded over to the stairs, the gun weighing him down like a ball and chain. Slowly, he made his way upstairs to his room.
He settled on his bed and just sat there for a second, cradling the gun and trying to work up his nerve. He would do this. He would do this and when he woke up -
John felt tears sting his eyes. When he woke up, he would be back in his drab little flat. Moriarty would still have done his terrible deeds, played his tale to completion. Sherlock would still have taken his own life. And John would be alone again, left with the remains of his broken life. This whole thing had been the essence of cruelty. Sherlock’s aching absence, still so raw, would now be a festering wound. It was like he was losing him all over again, watching him fall in slow motion. He had missed his chance.
He let out a shuddering breath. Now. He had to do it now.
John cocked the gun, brought it up. He thought of his nightmare (Sherlock falling, that pale, pale face, all that red ), tightened his finger, and -
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade
Word count: 5948
Rating: PG-13
Warning: some violent imagery, some cursing, John being John, and character death sort of? Trigger warning for suicide.
Summary: John wakes three months after Reichenbach and everything is back to the way it was. He is back in 221B Baker St, the Fall never happened, and Sherlock is alive. It can't possibly be real. Can it?
Author's note: this fic was written for the Sherlock Reversebang and it was inspired by the ABSOLUTELY AMAZING art by a_denikina. Make sure to go look at the piece and drool over its majesty. And if you like this fic at all, go give her a slow clap, because it wouldn't exist without her talent. And last but not least, thank you to my beta, you know who you are! Title of the fic comes from the song The Cold, the Dark, and the Silence by Sea Wolf.
i know you well enough to know you can’t be alone
The nightmare always starts the same.
Standing on the sidewalk. Looking four stories up. The world seeming to spin around him, a confusing blur. The only two focal points the hard bite of the mobile digging into his palm and the sight of his best friend on the edge of the roof.
Sherlock’s voice shakes over the line, and John’s world shakes with it.
“That’s what people do isn’t it? Leave a note?”
The bottom drops out of John’s stomach. Words jumble up in his throat, struggling to be voiced.
“Leave a note when?” are the words that finally spill out. Useless, useless, that wouldn’t help, that wouldn’t stop this.
And then the two words that always stopped his heart, the ones he wanted to stop the most, the ones he never could.
“Goodbye, John.”
And here the nightmare differed from the memory. John remained frozen, transfixed, as Sherlock fell through the air. Time seemed to turn into molasses, and Sherlock fell in aching slow motion, every single detail burning itself into John’s mind without remorse as he stood uselessly by.
Then, with sudden frightening speed, Sherlock’s body hit the ground, with a sickening crunch. Immediately, blood began to spread with creeping tendrils, crawling and squirming outward from the body. They reached John’s feet with alarming speed, soaking through his shoes and socks until his feet were coated in Sherlock’s blood.
And still, John couldn’t move. No matter how hard he fought to take even one step forward, he couldn’t. It was if his feet had been nailed to the ground. As if he would be trapped here forever, staring at the the body of the best man he had ever known while that same man’s blood swirled around his feet, squelched between his toes. Nausea and horror combined in his throat in a vile mixture.
But John was cognizant enough, had had this nightmare enough times to know one more part was coming before it would end. One last horrifying moment would come before he could wake.
Sherlock’s head rolled to face him.
Stark red was splattered across his pale, pale face. It did nothing to hide his eyes, endlessly staring at John. They were full of accusation that felt like a knife in the back.
- why didn’t you see how could you not have seen you were my best friend and you didn’t see why did you leave I needed you and you weren’t there why didn’t you see why didn’t you help me why -
And John woke up, his gasps for breath sounding more like sobs.
But that was the thing with this nightmare. That final image (all that red, that pale, pale face, those eyes) and those final thoughts (-why why why why-) never truly left him. They were always there, seared into his mind.
John clenched his eyes shut, gulping back his tears, and dug his head into his pillow. He lay there for what felt like an eternity, fists clenched in sheets and shaking, until he felt steady enough to sit up. He wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, never could after that particular dream. Time for John Watson's Nightmare Recovery Routine.
Get up. Pull on robe. Walk to kitchen. Put water in kettle. Set to boil. Take down teabags. Brew tea. Walk to sitting room. Sit in chair. Sip tea. Stare into space. Slip slowly into madness.
John chuckled darkly at that last morbid thought, taking a sip of his tea. He walked to his chair, sat down, and froze.
Across from him was a grey armchair, a violin bow resting on its arms. To his left was the fireplace, the skull leering on the mantle and the Cluedo board stabbed to the wall beside it. The yellow spray-painted face grinned down at him, its cheerfulness incongruous in the dismal lighting.
It was 221B Baker St, exactly the way it was before the Fall. Before John's life as he knew it had ended on the sidewalk outside St. Barts.
It wasn’t possible. The room was littered with Sherlock’s possessions, things John distinctly remembered packing up in the weeks after his death. Case files were strewn haphazardly across the fact, in complete defiance of the fact that Lestrade had come by personally and collected them all. Back in the kitchen, Sherlock’s chemistry equipment was on the table, although John remembered donating it all to a nearby school.
His hands perfectly steady, John put down his tea before marching to the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. He paused in front of the door, fists clenching, took a deep breath, and threw it open.
John had always found it a little infuriating, Sherlock’s habit of making a complete mess of the shared areas. When he had first moved in, he had just thought that Sherlock was a messy person and figured that he would end up being the one doing most of the tidying up and, although it was sometimes frustrating to come home after a long shift at the surgery to find the kitchen a disaster zone of chemicals and random body parts (eyeballs in the kettle why, he just wanted some tea, was that so much to ask?), he had been perfectly fine with accepting the responsibility.
Until he had finally seen Sherlock’s room one day when he was searching everywhere for his once more missing laptop. It seemed to periodically sprout legs and wander off, and Sherlock was always less than helpful in locating it.
After exhausting every other place he could think of, he had decided to try Sherlock’s room, darkly promising that if it was in there and Sherlock hadn’t told him he had taken it, John would not be responsible for his actions.
He had opened the door to the bedroom, and stood there staring in stupefied silence for a moment. Because the room was clean, fastidiously clean. No dust, no random objects, everything in its proper place. It managed to make John’s room look a little untidy, which was a quite a feat. And of course, it was totally bereft of anything even related to a laptop.
John had gone back to the kitchen where Sherlock was peering through his microscope. John stood beside him, waiting patiently until Sherlock had looked up at him with a mildly inquiring look.
“Your room is very tidy.” John had said, not really knowing how to broach the obviously much needed discussion of Sherlock’s living habits.
Sherlock didn’t reply verbally, instead using one of his many looks, the one John had mentally translated as ‘dear god, can you truly be this dense, how have you survived this long, darwinism is obviously failing’. It was one most often directed at various Scotland Yarders, though Anderson seemed to get it the most (John never did get a straight answer for why they hated each other so much).
John had decided to try again. “Is there any particular reason why? What with the state of the rest of the flat, I thought you’d be more comfortable stewing in your own filth. It seems to be your natural habitat.”
Sherlock’s look had morphed into another one he used quite often. John had translated that one to mean ‘do not question my mysterious ways, foolish mortal, as your tiny mind could not possibly understand them’. John had given it up as a bad job and went to find some food. If he couldn’t check his email, he could at least eat something.
Which is of course when he found his laptop, in the fridge, nestled between some containers of take out and a bag of fingers.
It had been a strange day.
And now here he was, on a day that was promising to be so much stranger, staring into a room that shouldn’t look the way it did, at all the things inside that couldn’t be there.
The Edgar Allan Poe portrait on the wall. The meticulously made up bed. Not a trace of dust or dirt to be seen.
And it was totally and completely impossible.
John walked slowly into the room, almost unwilling, lest he shatter the illusion. Because this couldn’t possibly be real. All of Sherlock’s things were gone, packed up in boxes and taken by Mycroft to who knew where.
(That had been a hard day, one of the hardest. Packing away Sherlock’s room had seemed to make it finally real, to drive home the fact that Sherlock was never coming back, gone forever. John had spent hours in there, going over every knick knack with care, placing them gently in their boxes. Then he had gone out and got piss drunk.
Mycroft had come the next day and collected everything. John, hungover and heartsick, had vowed to never get that drunk again. He wouldn’t become reliant on the drink. He refused to turn into Harry or his father.)
He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing his hand over the cover, half searching for some hint of residual warmth from Sherlock. Which would have been a rare enough find even when Sherlock had been alive, considering how often he slept in his actual bed (not very).
Sherlock was dead. He had taken his own life three months ago. John had been there. He had searched for his pulse and found nothing. He had gone to Sherlock’s funeral, fallen apart over his grave, packed away his entire life, and done his best to move on. There was no way that any of what he was seeing could be true. He hadn’t even been back to Baker Street in two months.
And yet, it obviously was real. Either that, or John was having some kind of psychotic episode, which was possible but extremely unlikely. Maybe some kind of excruciatingly lucid dream? Had he actually woken after his nightmare?
It couldn’t be real, that was the important thing to remember. Indulging the almost nauseating surge of hope in chest would only lead to disaster and disappointment.
Either he had finally lost it, or was still dreaming, or someone was playing an exceptionally cruel joke. In any case, he needed to find out what was going on. And John knew just the place to start.
*
After a quick stop upstairs to his own room for a change of clothes and his gun (whatever was going on here he might end up needing it), John left 221B for 221A. He tapped politely on the door, and attempted to wait patiently.
When Mrs. Hudson finally answered her door, wrapped in her robe and blinking blearily, John was pacing. Looking at his former landlady’s tired face, he guilty realized that it was probably close to three in the morning. She really shouldn’t have to deal with his wild imaginings right now.
“John? Is everything alright?”
John opened his mouth to speak, and paused. He hadn’t really thought about what he would say and it only seemed to occur to him now how anything he said would sound. Well, nothing for it but to go forward. If he seemed more than a little mad the worst that would happen was more therapy.
“I’m sorry to wake you so late Mrs. Hudson, and this is going to sound odd, but I need to ask you a question.”
Mrs. Hudson stepped closer, her face worried. “Of course dear, what is it?”
John took a deep breath. It was now or never. “I was just wondering...where Sherlock is.”
There was a pause, the entire world seeming to fall silent in anticipation of Mrs. Hudson’s reply. And then the tense hush was gone as quick as it had come, broken by her surprised laugh.
“Oh, is that all? He’s down at the Yard, talking to the Inspector about your case. I thought he would have told you, but you did seem quite tired when you came in, dear. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, love, don’t worry.” And she gave him a cheeky wink.
It was if the ground beneath him had disappeared.
“What?” He somehow managed to breathe out the word despite his throat’s best efforts to clog up.
“He’s at the Yard. He’ll be back soon, don’t worry.” Concern returned to Mrs. Hudson’s face. “Are you sure you’re alright John?”
John scraped himself together enough to reassure her. He plastered a smile on his face and hoped it looked more real than it felt. “Yes, sorry, I was just worried is all. I was pretty out of it earlier.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded, though she didn’t look entirely convinced. “Well, alright then. You should get some more sleep, love, you look a little peaky.”
John let out a little laugh, knowing it sounded slightly hysterical. “Yes, I’ll just head back up. Thank you.”
Mrs. Hudson looked at him for a moment longer, then bid him goodnight, closing her door. John remained where he was, listening to her footsteps retreat further into her flat. In a daze, he leaned back against the wall and finally let his shaky knees give way, lowering himself to the floor.
It couldn’t be. Sherlock couldn’t be at the Yard, he couldn’t be talking to Lestrade, he couldn’t be taking cases, he couldn’t be making sure an exhausted John got home alright, he couldn’t be doing any of those things because he was dead, he had died right in front of John, bleeding out across the pavement, he was dead, he was fucking dead.
Distantly John realized he was hyperventilating and lowered his head between his knees, trying to calm down.
Sherlock was dead, yes. This was an undeniable fact of the world as much as John wished it was not. Just as he knew the sun would rise and the earth was round, he knew that Sherlock was dead.
And yet it seemed he was not dead. Because Mrs. Hudson would never lie to him about it. She had been devastated by Sherlock’s death, she wouldn’t play into some kind of farce. She would never do something so cruel.
So this couldn’t be some prank. And it obviously wasn’t reality. Which left either a delusion or a dream.
Which meant that he needed to go to the source. He needed to find Sherlock. And he already knew where to start.
John pulled himself to his feet. He just stood for a moment, breathing deeply, before pulling himself together and settling into the role of the soldier, the one thing he was sure of here. Executing a perfect about face, he marched out the door and set off in search of a cab.
*
When John finally arrived at Scotland Yard (who knew it would be so hard to find a cab this time of night?), he had to fight off a wave of nostalgia. So many times he and Sherlock had come here, riding the high of solving a case. Sherlock would always stride in, demanding all attention be turned to him as he outlined exactly what was going on, pointing out all the little things the detectives had missed. Then, his brilliant monologue (and often insults) delivered, he would sweep back out, just as quickly and purposefully as he came. It had seemed like everyone had been helpless to do anything but stare in the face of the whirlwind that had been Sherlock Holmes. John had been just as helpless.
He had last been to the Yard two months ago, delivering one last case file he had found buried among Sherlock’s things. He had wanted to give it back to Lestrade, see how he was coping. It had been an ugly surprise to find that Lestrade was not there, and would not be for the near future, as he was on probation until his record could be reviewed in light of Sherlock’s involvement and his being a (supposed) fake. It had snapped John out of his fog of grief, waking him up to the fact that he had not been the only one to love Sherlock and other people were just as affected by his death.
Ever since then he and Lestrade had seen each other every week, frequenting a cafe near Lestrade’s place. They mostly talked about inconsequential things, avoiding anything of importance, but it was nice having someone to talk to. He knew Lestrade felt the same, as the dark circles beneath his eyes had started to lighten lately.
Now, as he walked into the Yard and headed towards Lestrade’s office, John wondered what this illusion was going to throw at him. If Lestrade would look just as tired. If he would look better. If Sherlock would be there with him.
John had not been idle during the cab ride over. He had asked the cabby some questions, trying to see if anything about Sherlock or Moriarty had been in the news. The cabby had just given him a blank look before apparently deciding he was drunk and ignoring him. As far as John could tell, Moriarty may not exist in this world at all, and if he did, he certainly had not come after Sherlock. So the delusion/dream theory was looking more and more likely. But why? Why would his brain decide to invent this elaborate fantasy?
And of course, there was still the hope clinging tenaciously to his heart that he couldn’t quite quash. The hope that said maybe this wasn’t a dream. Maybe this was real, and all that come before (the Fall, Sherlock’s suicide, the hours of grief) had been some nightmare that only took place in John’s mind. Maybe Sherlock was really here, healthy and vibrant, solving cases with his mad genius, and coming home to John.
Stranger things had happened. Right?
Stepping onto the lift, John tried to ignore the lump in his throat as he pressed Lestrade’s floor.
All too soon, he was standing outside Lestrade’s office. He stopped there for a moment, trying to fortify himself. Whether this was a delusion or a dream (or reality, what if all this was real?), there was a possibility Sherlock would be on the other side of the door. Not the nightmare spectre that John had become acquainted with lately, but a living, breathing Sherlock. Dream or not, he wasn’t sure he could handle that.
The choice was taken out of his hands when the door abruptly opened.
Lestrade stood in front of him, juggling a pile of papers and a couple of mugs, a pastry sticking out of his mouth. He let out a series of muffled sounds that John assumed was supposed to speech. Smiling, John obligingly took the stack of papers so Lestrade could take out the pastry and speak unimpeded.
Lestrade swallowed his bite of pastry and cleared his throat before trying to talk again. “ ‘Lo John. If you came looking for Sherlock, you just missed him. Left not ten minutes ago.”
John dazedly thought that he should be getting used to this feeling by now. The world shaking shock, like sudden lightning out of a clear sky. No matter how many times he felt it (and he seemed to be going for a record tonight), it always blindsided him.
“Ten minutes you said? Do you know where he was headed?”
Lestrade shrugged, taking a sip from one of mugs and making a disgusted face. “I didn’t ask, but I assumed he was going home. Though knowing him...”
John nodded. Saying Sherlock was unpredictable was like saying the ocean was quite large. Understatement to the point of idiocy.
Lestrade was frowning at him now. “You alright John?”
John realized he was still nodding in some kind of daze, and also that he had been standing there for a while in stupefied silence. “Yeah, fine. I’m going to see if I can catch him up. See you, Greg.”
He pressed the papers at Lestrade’s chest, forcing him to make an undignified scramble to keep a hold of them all. Lestrade’s sarcastic “Ta.” barely registered as John went back the way he had come.
By the time he reached the end of the hallway and turned towards the lift, his pace had increased to a run. The thought of being so close to Sherlock, to seeing him, hearing him, and missing him, was unbearable. It didn’t matter anymore if this was a dream or a fantasy or even reality, John just needed to see Sherlock again.
He couldn’t miss his chance. Not this time.
*
He ended up searching the building for half an hour before giving up. Sherlock was long gone. If he was ever here.
Of course, the simplest solution would be to head back to 221B. Sherlock would eventually show up back there. But really, what was the point?
What was he even doing, running around in the middle of the night, chasing a figment? People kept telling him Sherlock was here, Sherlock was alive and fine, but John had yet to see him. He had no tangible evidence beyond some physical objects, which could have been easily placed there.
He had probably lost his mind. All of this was only happening in his head while his physical body sat in some padded room somewhere. Maybe his mind was trying to make a fantasy world where Sherlock had never died in an attempt to save what was left of his sanity. Except for whatever reason it couldn’t recreate the man himself. Too vibrant to be fully realized by any delusion. It would just figure that even in a perfect world, Sherlock was still gone.
John limped down the street towards home, feeling Sherlock’s absence like a wound.
“John?”
He whirled, gun at the ready, before he even recognized the voice.
Sherlock stood before him. He was wearing the damn coat and scarf that he never went without. His hair was tousled, his eyes sharp and worried. He looked a little tired, a little gaunt, as if he hadn’t seen a good meal or a bed for a couple of days. And he was completely and utterly breathtaking.
John lowered the gun slowly, tucking it back into his trousers. He swallowed heavily. “Sherlock?” he barely recognized his voice, it was shaking so badly.
Sherlock nodded slowly, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. They flitted up and down John’s body, taking in clues. Whatever deductions he reached intensified his worry, his brow creasing further.
“Are you alright?”
John didn’t answer, ignoring the note of demand in Sherlock’s voice (Sherlock’s voice). Instead, he stepped closer until he was right in front of Sherlock, close enough to feel him breathing (he was breathing). He lifted his hand up to Sherlock’s face, hesitating, feeling his breath against his fingers, before gently touching his cheek.
It was warm.
Choking, he cupped Sherlock’s cheek, stroking down his face to his throat. Sherlock’s pulse thudded away under his touch. He was alive.
Then he threw his arms around Sherlock, his miraculous friend returned from the dead, trying to get his breathing under control. After a few beats of confused silence on Sherlock’s part, his arms came up around John, one hand gently tangling in his hair while the other awkwardly patted his back. John chuckled, still breathing raggedly, and ducked his head into his shoulder.
In that moment, it didn’t matter if this was a dream or reality. It didn’t matter, even if John was locked up somewhere in a straitjacket and not allowed pointy objects. All that mattered was the man in his arms, confused and awkward, but oh, so very, very alive.
*
Once John was finished with his little emotional breakdown, he pulled back and declared that they were heading home. Sherlock eyed him, then nodded imperiously like it had been his idea and marched off to find a cab. John followed more sedately, his hands curled behind his back. He was trying very hard not to blush or grin like a loon.
The cab ride home was an exercise in silence. Sherlock stared at him the entire time, unflinchingly. All the focussed attention was a little much for John’s nerves and he started to pick nervously at the seat. After a few minutes of this, Sherlock’s fingers had rested gently on the back of hand, stilling its movement. John immediately looked out the window, fighting the heat from his cheeks. Sherlock’s fingers stayed atop his for the rest of the ride.
When they arrived, Sherlock tucked his fingers into the cuff of John’s jacket, pulling him behind him and up the stairs.
As soon as they entered 221B, John collapsed in his chair with a deep sigh. Sherlock walked behind him, shrugging off his coat. Unable to resist, John twisted in his seat, following him with his eyes, knowing Sherlock noticed. But John couldn’t help himself, he had to keep Sherlock in sight. It felt like he might shatter if he didn’t.
All thought of discovering the truth of what was happening had disappeared. Sherlock’s presence, his touch and his voice had completely obliterated them. It seemed like life had been breathed back into the world. Everything seemed to be more colourful, more vibrant. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he could stand straighter, breathe easier.
Did it really matter if this was all real, if Sherlock was here?
John sighed angrily, forcing himself to look away. Of course it mattered , he couldn’t just abandon the real world because Sherlock wasn’t there.
But the thought was enough to give him pause.
Sherlock appeared back in front of him, sans coat and scarf. He settled into his chair, and studied John over steepled fingers.
John mustered a smile and nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. “I’m fine Sherlock, stop worrying. You’ll give yourself an ulcer.”
Sherlock seemed unconvinced, but said nothing.
Well, if he couldn’t convince him maybe he could distract him
“What were you talking to Lestrade about?”
Sherlock adopted one of the looks from his lexicon, the one John had translated as ‘you think you’re being clever but you’re really, really not’. When John’s only reply to Sherlock’s mute disdain was a slight widening of his smile, Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.
“I had to go and explain it all to him. He and his “team” had missed everything of importance. Honestly, if they are the best this city has to offer by way of detectives, I weep for humanity. Murderers and thieves will run rampant in the streets, the country will collapse, society as we know it will cease to function. Maybe I should make slideshows to explain later cases. They should be able to understand bullet points and small words. Very small words. You usually interrupt me before now.”
John shook off his Sherlock induced haze, sure he had a dopey grin plastered on his face. “What?”
Sherlock cocked his head, and narrowed his eyes. It was his ‘you are hiding something and I will find out what it is just you wait’ look. “You never let me go on that long about the ineptitude of Scotland Yard.”
John ducked his head, knowing trying to hide his expression was useless. “Maybe I’m just...happy to see you.” His throat choked up before he could say anything more.
When John finally looked up, Sherlock’s expression was indescribable. It was the only look of his that John was never able to translate. After careful observation, he had tentatively labelled simply as ‘his’.
They had never talked about this thing between them, never acknowledged it aloud. It was the source of this particular look of Sherlock’s, the reason why John catalogued Sherlock’s different expressions in such detail, the need that drove their constant small touches that spoke worlds of feeling, constantly hovering on the brink of something more. Neither needed to say it to know.
But why hadn’t they said it, John wondered with sudden frustration. Even if it didn’t need to be spoken, even if they both knew, it seemed so foolish to have waited in silence when they could have been together, truly together. What, exactly, had they been waiting for?
Because John knew the feeling now, of standing over Sherlock’s grave with the thought of what could have been a bitter ache and all the words never spoken jumbled in his chest. He couldn’t do that again, let what he wanted go without a word. But neither could he force himself to say it.
Instead, he retreated again, cursing himself for a coward. He looked away, ignoring the way Sherlock’s hands clenched on his knees for a moment.
“So what do you have on the go tonight? And by that I mean you are eating something and going to sleep.” Settling into the role of exasperated caretaker was a relief after all the excitement and wild emotional upheaval of the night, even though it felt odd after months of grief.
Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and slouched down into his chair. “Yes, mother.”
John snorted, levering himself out of his chair. “Is there in particular you want, oh wayward child? I’m not sure what we have in.”
Sherlock smiled, the honest one that always made John feel warm. “Whatever is there will be fine.”
John went to the fridge, scanning the semi barren shelves. Ah, leftover takeout, always a good late night meal. Sometimes he wondered how they hadn’t gotten scurvy yet.
As he dished out the food and popped it in the microwave, Sherlock’s voice reached him. He had moved to lean in the doorway to the kitchen. “Lestrade gave us a new case to look over. It’s a cold case, but it doesn’t look completely dull.”
John hmmed, taking the food out of the microwave and turning towards Sherlock, and felt like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.
Nothing about the scene had changed. Sherlock was still leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. There were shadows under his eyes and an irrepressible smirk stretching his lips. He looked unbearably satisfied with himself and the world and he has stunningly beautiful.
Fuck it. It didn’t matter if this was real, it didn’t matter that they had never spoken about it. All that mattered was that Sherlock was here, alive and healthy, standing in front of him through some twist of fate. He had learned his lesson about not taking what he was given when he could.
John marched over to Sherlock, took his face in his hands, and kissed him.
Sherlock’s arms were immediately around him, one hand stroking across his shoulders while the other came to rest in the small of John’s back. John tangled a hand in his hair, tilting his head to a better angle, and letting his other hand play along Sherlock’s clavicle. John nipped at his lower lip, eliciting a gasp. He used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, licking into Sherlock’s mouth.
When they finally broke apart, they were both panting. Sherlock smiled, leaning his forehead against John’s. His breath brushed across John’s lips.
Sherlock chuckled. “I thought you’d never do that. I was getting tired of waiting so long.”
John made an affronted noise, ignoring the twisting sensation in his gut. “Why did I have to make the first move? You were more than capable of it, which you just made abundantly clear.”
Sherlock just smirked and very deliberately groped John’s arse.
*
After a lot of making out (a slightly embarrassing amount, John hadn’t spent this much time just kissing since he was a teenager), Sherlock finally ate some food. This led to even more kissing. Finally, John demanded that Sherlock head to bed, to which he responded with a frighteningly intense leer. John insisted it was for sleeping purposes only, though some more snogging happened along the way.
When Sherlock was at last under the covers, John left him to it with a few lingering kisses. Sherlock gave a disappointed pout of epic proportions, but John had long ago prided himself on being immune to those.
He shut the door gently, leaning his head against it. It felt like his smile was trying to split his face, it was so wide. He turned to head up to his own room, his lips tingling pleasantly, when he spotted a new file on the table. It must be the one that Sherlock had mentioned, the cold case. Curious, John ambled over and idly flipped the cover open.
He stopped, then flipped the page. Then the next and the next and the next, with increasing desperation. He flipped through the entire file, and it didn’t change.
He couldn’t read it. The pages were covered in nonsense symbols, swirls and lines, in no language. Not wanting to believe it, he strode over to the desk and cracked open one of the many books.
It was the same, page after page covered in meaningless symbols. No matter what he checked (medicine bottles, advertisements, the telly, the milk jug), they were all the same. Covered in nonsense.
He knew what this meant, he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. He had managed to forget, for a few blissful moments, with Sherlock. Forget there was a possibility all of this wasn’t real. All that had mattered was Sherlock, his hands and his lips. But there was no denying it now.
John was dreaming. This was all a lie.
And it all made sense now didn’t it? Moriarty’s absence, the Fall never happening, Sherlock appearing right when he needed him the most. It was all perfect, seeming tailor made to make him stay here.
For a second, he considered it. Staying. Ignoring the truth and keeping on living the lie. But staying here in some happy dream world with a facsimile of the man he loved, it was an insult to Sherlock’s memory. And even if it wasn’t, John wouldn’t be able to bear it here, now that he knew. He would know that every moment was a lie, engineered by his own mind.
He had to go. But how to leave a dream?
As if drawn by a magnet, his gaze travelled across the room, landing on his gun, lying by the couch seemingly innocent.
Yes. Yes, that would do.
He walked over, picked it up, felt the weight of the gun in his palm. He looked back to Sherlock’s door, debated going to look at him just one last time, before deciding against it. He couldn’t. If he went back, looked at him, he might lose his resolve. If he was doing this, he had to do it now.
He plodded over to the stairs, the gun weighing him down like a ball and chain. Slowly, he made his way upstairs to his room.
He settled on his bed and just sat there for a second, cradling the gun and trying to work up his nerve. He would do this. He would do this and when he woke up -
John felt tears sting his eyes. When he woke up, he would be back in his drab little flat. Moriarty would still have done his terrible deeds, played his tale to completion. Sherlock would still have taken his own life. And John would be alone again, left with the remains of his broken life. This whole thing had been the essence of cruelty. Sherlock’s aching absence, still so raw, would now be a festering wound. It was like he was losing him all over again, watching him fall in slow motion. He had missed his chance.
He let out a shuddering breath. Now. He had to do it now.
John cocked the gun, brought it up. He thought of his nightmare (Sherlock falling, that pale, pale face, all that red ), tightened his finger, and -