Inventing It
Title: Inventing It
Rated: PG-13
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Wordcount: 2400
Warning: This fic contains attempted suicide and spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall."
Disclaimer: I do not own the show Sherlock or the character.
“You have to tell him.”
“No.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
“No you won’t.”
“…How can you be so sure?”
“You know he would believe you. It’s what he wants to believe most in the world. He would come after me. It would put him in danger.”
There was a pause. Molly knew Sherlock was right. It was the only reason she had kept it a secret this long.
“He’s gotten bad, Sherlock,” Molly tried again. “I think he might…”
“Might what?” Sherlock interrupted, he already knew the answer. Molly made no reply. “I suppose you should watch him even closer if that’s the case.”
--
It was two in the morning when Lestrade’s landline began its shrill ring. He rubbed his eyes, still sticky with sleep. He had not been asleep long, definitely not long enough.
“Hello?” he answered groggily.
“You need to be here,” it was Mrs. Hudson. “Now.”
Lestrade was already out of bed and pulling on the same trousers he had worn the day before.
“What’s he done?”
“I don’t know. I woke up to a loud noise and the door’s been locked,” he could hear the tears in her voice.
“I’m on my way.”
--
“John?!” Lestrade was taking the stairs two at a time on his way to the flat. Mrs. Hudson was outside the door with a desperate look, and she clutched a tissue nervously in her hand.
“He isn’t answering me. I’ve been begging him to open the door,” she took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t lose them both.”
Lestrade put his full weight into the door and after another hit felt the lock begin to give. His shoulder pained him after the third try but he had expected John to finally give in and open the door once it became obvious it would be broken down. The fact that he did not only worried Lestrade more.
John was in Sherlock’s chair, head lolling back, hands in his lap. There was a bottle of Scotch on the table beside him but no glass. Lestrade fist thought that the doctor had shot himself in the head but saw no gun. In John’s hand instead was an empty pill bottle.
Lestrade hauled John out of the chair and laid him on his back and began CPR. Mrs. Hudson was already on her mobile calling for an ambulance. After a moment John began to breathe again. His eyes opened. He was not lucid. He was calling Sherlock’s name.
“Where is he?” John asked no one in particular. “Please, God, where is he?”
--
“You’ve heard?” Molly asked upon seeing Sherlock’s face.
“I saw,” was his answer. “You were right.”
Here he paused for a moment. His eyes were red and his hands were shaking.
“I went to check on him, climbed through the window in my room,” he began. “He was awake, but I saw the bottle, the pills.” He paused. “He looked so happy to see me.”
“You saved him,” Molly intoned with a smile.
“Not directly. I threw a book as loudly as I could just above where Mrs. Hudson’s room is. Once I heard her outside I knew she would call for help. And I ran.”
He looked at her and tried to compose himself.
“Have you visited him?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “He thinks he died and saw you. He said he wished we’d let him die.”
--
John was perched on his bed atop several pillows that Mrs. Hudson insisted on fluffing and stuffing behind his head and back. She wanted him to be able to see out the window, to see the sun, the flowers, the world.
“Why?” he asked her.
“It’s nice to remember there is still a beautiful world out there,” she answered.
“No,” he said, “there isn’t.”
--
The hospital would only release him into the custody of a family member. Harry was not exactly thrilled.
“You really think suicide was the right way to go?” she asked John as she held the door to the cab open for him.
“No,” he answered. He stopped for a moment and looked up over his shoulder to the roof. His gaze shifted to the pavement. There was still a deep crimson stain. His heart tightened in his chest. He closed his eyes and all he saw was Sherlock falling. He doubled over again.
“What the hell, John?” Harry’s voice was distant and worried.
“Get me home,” he managed.
“I’m taking you to my place.”
“No!” he was at once standing right again. “No, I want to go home.”
“That place isn’t good for you,” she argued.
“Baker Street, I want to go to Baker Street.” He began to breathe deeply and harshly. “I need to lie down.”
“You can lay down at mine.”
“No, I need the bed, I need Sherlock’s bed,” he countered. She looked at him in curiosity. “It’s the only place I can really sleep.”
--
With John asleep in Sherlock’s bed like he hadn’t slept in ages Harry wandered around 221b. She was curious. The books had been untouched save one that awkwardly lay on the kitchen floor just in front of the refrigerator. There was a box of science equipment gathering dust underneath the kitchen table. In the living room there was a skull on the mantelpiece. Near one of the windows was a music stand that held an unfinished piece of sheet music.
The only thing of John’s was the half-filled bottle of Scotch that still sat on the table. Harry stared at it for a moment. She took hold of it by its long neck, brought it to the kitchen sink, and poured it down the drain. There was a dull thud from down the hall. Harry rushed to find John on his side on the floor at the foot of the bed, a syringe sticking out of his arm.
“Jesus fucking Christ, John!” she had no idea what to do. She pulled the needle out of his arm and looked at it. Next to John’s leg was a bent spoon and a lighter. She grabbed John by his too tight blue dressing gown. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I want to see him again,” John mumbled, “just one more time.”
He passed out as she called for an ambulance.
--
“Is it bad?”
“Apparently he found your hidden stash.”
“Is it bad?” Sherlock stressed it this time.
“Of course it fucking well is!” Lestrade shouted. “He thought you were dead!”
Mrs. Hudson was sat on one of the waiting room chairs crying, Molly rubbed her back supportively.
“Will he die?” Sherlock asked as John’s doctor was walking toward them.
“Harriet Watson,” she asked, ignoring Sherlock’s question. Harry stood from her stoic silence next to Molly. Before she could step forward, however, Sherlock blocked the doctor, whose face met directly with Sherlock’s neck. She looked up to meet his piercing gaze.
“Is. He. Alive.” Sherlock said.
“And you are?” the doctor asked him, swallowing hard as she attempted, and failed, to look unafraid.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Dr. Watson’s emergency contact?” the doctor said in surprise.
“Yes,” Sherlock answered hastily. “Now if you do not tell me how he is I will push you out of the way and find out myself.”
“And I will have you arrested.”
Sherlock bent low to bring his face close to hers.
“I’d like to see you try,” he paused. “I've died for that man, do you really think Scotland Yard can stop me?”
With that he did as he promised, and moved past her and headed down the hallway. The doctor, Lestrade, and Harry went after in his wake. He looked at every door on his way, quickly deducing which door John was behind.
He paused with his hand against the correct door. The others caught up to him and watched as he just stood there. He seemed to be thinking.
“He’s alive,” the doctor broke the silence. “But he’s unconscious.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock replied immediately. He trailed his hand down the door to the knob. He took a deep breath before he slowly turn it and let the door swing open. John was alone in the room; he was hooked up to an IV and strapped to the bed with wrist cuffs.
“John?” Sherlock asked as he moved closer to the bed.
“He can’t hear you,” the doctor said from her place in the doorway. The others were crowded near her, watching Sherlock.
“Yes,” Sherlock answered back in aggravation, “he can.”
John, however, did not respond. Sherlock moved to the side of the bed and ran a tentative finger over John’s knuckles. John murmured. Sherlock bent over until he was inches from John’s face. He could feel the other man’s steady, sleeping breath against his skin. He ran his other hand over John’s hair, letting it tickle his palm. John opened his eyes and smiled.
“Hi,” John whispered.
“Hello, John,” Sherlock replied.
“It worked,” John stated. “I’m home.”
“No, John,” Sherlock said softly and grasped John’s hand in his, “I am.”
--
The doctor had made it quite clear that she did not like the idea of Sherlock staying the night in the room. Sherlock, in turn, made it quite clear that they would have to drag him out kicking and screaming and probably biting and with just a hint of profanity. So she left him. Lestrade returned home. Molly stayed in Bart’s but remained in the morgue, should she be needed. Mrs. Hudson went back to Baker street, clearly still shaken. It was just them. John was in and out of consciousness.
“Don’t go.”
“Never again.”
“I missed you. So much.”
“I missed you too.”
“It hurt. It hurt so bad, Sherlock,” here John gasped around tears. Sherlock squeezed his hand in an attempt at comfort.
“I know. I’m sorry. I had to.”
“Why?”
“To keep you safe.”
John looked around than with glassy eyes, taking in the dark room. He felt numb, dead. He supposed that he was.
“I think I like it here. It’s so quiet. And it’s just you and me.”
Sherlock smiled at this. He carded his hand in John’s hair. It had gotten longer. He also had a few days stubble on his chin. He was much thinner as well. Sherlock would have to see to that.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmmm?”
“I loved you.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I told you, it hurt too much.”
“Do you want to know a secret?”
“Sure.”
Here Sherlock leaned his lips against the shell of John’s ear. He could smell shampoo and cologne. It took a moment for Sherlock to realize that it was the smell of his own shampoo and cologne. He smiled.
“I loved you too. More than my poor, empty, broken heart could understand.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“No,” Sherlock said, “I’m afraid it’s worse than just love now.”
“There’s nothing greater than love.”
“There is, my dear fellow. And you and I are the only ones who have it. We invented it.”
--
Sherlock never left John’s side the entire night and into the morning. He had long ago trained his body to go days without eating, sleeping, or needing the loo. Luckily for him, Molly brought him up a coffee. Mrs. Hudson popped in by mid-morning to give him sandwiches. Lestrade also showed with flowers and a balloon for John.
“We received some anonymous information that clears your name,” Lestrade said as he sat the vase of flowers on the table next to John’s bed. “It was unusual. All of it was on some ridiculously expensive camera phone that was password protected. But the code was already typed in all we needed to do was press enter.”
Sherlock would have to remember to send Miss Adler a nice new whip.
“Oh, and it also came with proof that there was a Jim Moriarty and the names and whereabouts of his associates.”
Perhaps she deserved a pair of handcuffs too.
“We’ve just been waiting for John to wake up,” Mrs. Hudson informed Lastrade. “I’m sure he’ll be just as happy to see you, Sherlock.”
“You mean he doesn’t know you’re alive yet?” Lestrade asked in disbelief. “It’s a good thing he’s strapped down or he’d probably deck you.”
“He knows, he just doesn’t comprehend yet,” Sherlock answered. He was still holding onto John’s hand, had been all night. Mrs. Hudson had a firm grasp on the other.
“Sherlock?” the drugged and groggy voice of John Watson said. He was blinking against the harsh sunlight that managed to escape through the blinds. His eyes went then to Mrs. Hudson. He seemed confused for a moment. His eyes went wide after much contemplation.
“Are you dead too?” he asked her slowly. She smiled sympathetically.
“No, dear, and neither are you,” she ran her fingers soothingly over his arm. He turned his eyes slowly to Sherlock before shutting them quickly.
“Nonononono, not real,” John squeezed his eyes tightly before opening them again. He let out a shaky breath when he saw that Sherlock was still there. “I’ve gone crazy.”
“I’m real,” Sherlock explained. He could feel the subtle tremor begin in John’s hand. “And not dead.”
John began to spurt out various words but was so convoluted that even Sherlock could not decipher them. John then began to thrash against his restraints as though he were going to punch or hug Sherlock, it was not clear what the objective was.
Sherlock stood and hovered over John, his face so close John’s eyes nearly crossed. He calmed down, however. He stared at Sherlock, carded his gaze over every inch of his body to make certain it was whole. There were no scars, no missing parts, no blood.
Sherlock kissed him.
“We invented it,” John whispered against Sherlock’s pale lips. Sherlock grinned. He unstrapped the restraints and John immediately folded Sherlock in his arms without regard to the needles still sticking into his veins.
John grasped his hand so harshly onto the back of Sherlock’s dress shirt that his knuckles were white. He feared that if he let go Sherlock would disappear or that he would find this all to be a dream. John drew in the familiar scent of Sherlock and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s once more, stronger and more forceful this time.
Sherlock could not really find the ability to mind.
Rated: PG-13
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Wordcount: 2400
Warning: This fic contains attempted suicide and spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall."
Disclaimer: I do not own the show Sherlock or the character.
“You have to tell him.”
“No.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
“No you won’t.”
“…How can you be so sure?”
“You know he would believe you. It’s what he wants to believe most in the world. He would come after me. It would put him in danger.”
There was a pause. Molly knew Sherlock was right. It was the only reason she had kept it a secret this long.
“He’s gotten bad, Sherlock,” Molly tried again. “I think he might…”
“Might what?” Sherlock interrupted, he already knew the answer. Molly made no reply. “I suppose you should watch him even closer if that’s the case.”
--
It was two in the morning when Lestrade’s landline began its shrill ring. He rubbed his eyes, still sticky with sleep. He had not been asleep long, definitely not long enough.
“Hello?” he answered groggily.
“You need to be here,” it was Mrs. Hudson. “Now.”
Lestrade was already out of bed and pulling on the same trousers he had worn the day before.
“What’s he done?”
“I don’t know. I woke up to a loud noise and the door’s been locked,” he could hear the tears in her voice.
“I’m on my way.”
--
“John?!” Lestrade was taking the stairs two at a time on his way to the flat. Mrs. Hudson was outside the door with a desperate look, and she clutched a tissue nervously in her hand.
“He isn’t answering me. I’ve been begging him to open the door,” she took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t lose them both.”
Lestrade put his full weight into the door and after another hit felt the lock begin to give. His shoulder pained him after the third try but he had expected John to finally give in and open the door once it became obvious it would be broken down. The fact that he did not only worried Lestrade more.
John was in Sherlock’s chair, head lolling back, hands in his lap. There was a bottle of Scotch on the table beside him but no glass. Lestrade fist thought that the doctor had shot himself in the head but saw no gun. In John’s hand instead was an empty pill bottle.
Lestrade hauled John out of the chair and laid him on his back and began CPR. Mrs. Hudson was already on her mobile calling for an ambulance. After a moment John began to breathe again. His eyes opened. He was not lucid. He was calling Sherlock’s name.
“Where is he?” John asked no one in particular. “Please, God, where is he?”
--
“You’ve heard?” Molly asked upon seeing Sherlock’s face.
“I saw,” was his answer. “You were right.”
Here he paused for a moment. His eyes were red and his hands were shaking.
“I went to check on him, climbed through the window in my room,” he began. “He was awake, but I saw the bottle, the pills.” He paused. “He looked so happy to see me.”
“You saved him,” Molly intoned with a smile.
“Not directly. I threw a book as loudly as I could just above where Mrs. Hudson’s room is. Once I heard her outside I knew she would call for help. And I ran.”
He looked at her and tried to compose himself.
“Have you visited him?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “He thinks he died and saw you. He said he wished we’d let him die.”
--
John was perched on his bed atop several pillows that Mrs. Hudson insisted on fluffing and stuffing behind his head and back. She wanted him to be able to see out the window, to see the sun, the flowers, the world.
“Why?” he asked her.
“It’s nice to remember there is still a beautiful world out there,” she answered.
“No,” he said, “there isn’t.”
--
The hospital would only release him into the custody of a family member. Harry was not exactly thrilled.
“You really think suicide was the right way to go?” she asked John as she held the door to the cab open for him.
“No,” he answered. He stopped for a moment and looked up over his shoulder to the roof. His gaze shifted to the pavement. There was still a deep crimson stain. His heart tightened in his chest. He closed his eyes and all he saw was Sherlock falling. He doubled over again.
“What the hell, John?” Harry’s voice was distant and worried.
“Get me home,” he managed.
“I’m taking you to my place.”
“No!” he was at once standing right again. “No, I want to go home.”
“That place isn’t good for you,” she argued.
“Baker Street, I want to go to Baker Street.” He began to breathe deeply and harshly. “I need to lie down.”
“You can lay down at mine.”
“No, I need the bed, I need Sherlock’s bed,” he countered. She looked at him in curiosity. “It’s the only place I can really sleep.”
--
With John asleep in Sherlock’s bed like he hadn’t slept in ages Harry wandered around 221b. She was curious. The books had been untouched save one that awkwardly lay on the kitchen floor just in front of the refrigerator. There was a box of science equipment gathering dust underneath the kitchen table. In the living room there was a skull on the mantelpiece. Near one of the windows was a music stand that held an unfinished piece of sheet music.
The only thing of John’s was the half-filled bottle of Scotch that still sat on the table. Harry stared at it for a moment. She took hold of it by its long neck, brought it to the kitchen sink, and poured it down the drain. There was a dull thud from down the hall. Harry rushed to find John on his side on the floor at the foot of the bed, a syringe sticking out of his arm.
“Jesus fucking Christ, John!” she had no idea what to do. She pulled the needle out of his arm and looked at it. Next to John’s leg was a bent spoon and a lighter. She grabbed John by his too tight blue dressing gown. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I want to see him again,” John mumbled, “just one more time.”
He passed out as she called for an ambulance.
--
“Is it bad?”
“Apparently he found your hidden stash.”
“Is it bad?” Sherlock stressed it this time.
“Of course it fucking well is!” Lestrade shouted. “He thought you were dead!”
Mrs. Hudson was sat on one of the waiting room chairs crying, Molly rubbed her back supportively.
“Will he die?” Sherlock asked as John’s doctor was walking toward them.
“Harriet Watson,” she asked, ignoring Sherlock’s question. Harry stood from her stoic silence next to Molly. Before she could step forward, however, Sherlock blocked the doctor, whose face met directly with Sherlock’s neck. She looked up to meet his piercing gaze.
“Is. He. Alive.” Sherlock said.
“And you are?” the doctor asked him, swallowing hard as she attempted, and failed, to look unafraid.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Dr. Watson’s emergency contact?” the doctor said in surprise.
“Yes,” Sherlock answered hastily. “Now if you do not tell me how he is I will push you out of the way and find out myself.”
“And I will have you arrested.”
Sherlock bent low to bring his face close to hers.
“I’d like to see you try,” he paused. “I've died for that man, do you really think Scotland Yard can stop me?”
With that he did as he promised, and moved past her and headed down the hallway. The doctor, Lestrade, and Harry went after in his wake. He looked at every door on his way, quickly deducing which door John was behind.
He paused with his hand against the correct door. The others caught up to him and watched as he just stood there. He seemed to be thinking.
“He’s alive,” the doctor broke the silence. “But he’s unconscious.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock replied immediately. He trailed his hand down the door to the knob. He took a deep breath before he slowly turn it and let the door swing open. John was alone in the room; he was hooked up to an IV and strapped to the bed with wrist cuffs.
“John?” Sherlock asked as he moved closer to the bed.
“He can’t hear you,” the doctor said from her place in the doorway. The others were crowded near her, watching Sherlock.
“Yes,” Sherlock answered back in aggravation, “he can.”
John, however, did not respond. Sherlock moved to the side of the bed and ran a tentative finger over John’s knuckles. John murmured. Sherlock bent over until he was inches from John’s face. He could feel the other man’s steady, sleeping breath against his skin. He ran his other hand over John’s hair, letting it tickle his palm. John opened his eyes and smiled.
“Hi,” John whispered.
“Hello, John,” Sherlock replied.
“It worked,” John stated. “I’m home.”
“No, John,” Sherlock said softly and grasped John’s hand in his, “I am.”
--
The doctor had made it quite clear that she did not like the idea of Sherlock staying the night in the room. Sherlock, in turn, made it quite clear that they would have to drag him out kicking and screaming and probably biting and with just a hint of profanity. So she left him. Lestrade returned home. Molly stayed in Bart’s but remained in the morgue, should she be needed. Mrs. Hudson went back to Baker street, clearly still shaken. It was just them. John was in and out of consciousness.
“Don’t go.”
“Never again.”
“I missed you. So much.”
“I missed you too.”
“It hurt. It hurt so bad, Sherlock,” here John gasped around tears. Sherlock squeezed his hand in an attempt at comfort.
“I know. I’m sorry. I had to.”
“Why?”
“To keep you safe.”
John looked around than with glassy eyes, taking in the dark room. He felt numb, dead. He supposed that he was.
“I think I like it here. It’s so quiet. And it’s just you and me.”
Sherlock smiled at this. He carded his hand in John’s hair. It had gotten longer. He also had a few days stubble on his chin. He was much thinner as well. Sherlock would have to see to that.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmmm?”
“I loved you.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I told you, it hurt too much.”
“Do you want to know a secret?”
“Sure.”
Here Sherlock leaned his lips against the shell of John’s ear. He could smell shampoo and cologne. It took a moment for Sherlock to realize that it was the smell of his own shampoo and cologne. He smiled.
“I loved you too. More than my poor, empty, broken heart could understand.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“No,” Sherlock said, “I’m afraid it’s worse than just love now.”
“There’s nothing greater than love.”
“There is, my dear fellow. And you and I are the only ones who have it. We invented it.”
--
Sherlock never left John’s side the entire night and into the morning. He had long ago trained his body to go days without eating, sleeping, or needing the loo. Luckily for him, Molly brought him up a coffee. Mrs. Hudson popped in by mid-morning to give him sandwiches. Lestrade also showed with flowers and a balloon for John.
“We received some anonymous information that clears your name,” Lestrade said as he sat the vase of flowers on the table next to John’s bed. “It was unusual. All of it was on some ridiculously expensive camera phone that was password protected. But the code was already typed in all we needed to do was press enter.”
Sherlock would have to remember to send Miss Adler a nice new whip.
“Oh, and it also came with proof that there was a Jim Moriarty and the names and whereabouts of his associates.”
Perhaps she deserved a pair of handcuffs too.
“We’ve just been waiting for John to wake up,” Mrs. Hudson informed Lastrade. “I’m sure he’ll be just as happy to see you, Sherlock.”
“You mean he doesn’t know you’re alive yet?” Lestrade asked in disbelief. “It’s a good thing he’s strapped down or he’d probably deck you.”
“He knows, he just doesn’t comprehend yet,” Sherlock answered. He was still holding onto John’s hand, had been all night. Mrs. Hudson had a firm grasp on the other.
“Sherlock?” the drugged and groggy voice of John Watson said. He was blinking against the harsh sunlight that managed to escape through the blinds. His eyes went then to Mrs. Hudson. He seemed confused for a moment. His eyes went wide after much contemplation.
“Are you dead too?” he asked her slowly. She smiled sympathetically.
“No, dear, and neither are you,” she ran her fingers soothingly over his arm. He turned his eyes slowly to Sherlock before shutting them quickly.
“Nonononono, not real,” John squeezed his eyes tightly before opening them again. He let out a shaky breath when he saw that Sherlock was still there. “I’ve gone crazy.”
“I’m real,” Sherlock explained. He could feel the subtle tremor begin in John’s hand. “And not dead.”
John began to spurt out various words but was so convoluted that even Sherlock could not decipher them. John then began to thrash against his restraints as though he were going to punch or hug Sherlock, it was not clear what the objective was.
Sherlock stood and hovered over John, his face so close John’s eyes nearly crossed. He calmed down, however. He stared at Sherlock, carded his gaze over every inch of his body to make certain it was whole. There were no scars, no missing parts, no blood.
Sherlock kissed him.
“We invented it,” John whispered against Sherlock’s pale lips. Sherlock grinned. He unstrapped the restraints and John immediately folded Sherlock in his arms without regard to the needles still sticking into his veins.
John grasped his hand so harshly onto the back of Sherlock’s dress shirt that his knuckles were white. He feared that if he let go Sherlock would disappear or that he would find this all to be a dream. John drew in the familiar scent of Sherlock and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s once more, stronger and more forceful this time.
Sherlock could not really find the ability to mind.