Fandom The Final Goodbye (Johnlock)

[GV Butterworth]

Staring at his reflection in the glossy black of the tombstone's granite, John felt that very little had changed since he first stood here, over twelve months ago. He still looked the same, despite the return of the cane and the silver streaks in his hair. Internally, he certainly hadn't shifted. He had visited his psychologist every week, as prescribed, all with the hope of releasing the enduring ache in the core of his being, but slowly John had come to realize that the sensation could well be permanent.

"I don't want this anymore," John had told Dr. Ella Pengham as he sat in the worn, modernist wingback in a carelessly designed office. He tapped his chest a few times to indicate the problem under discussion. "I'm supposed to be getting married, I have a new job. I can't have this. I want to be able to breathe again. It's been over a year."

"There's no prescribed length of time for grieving--"

"I know," John snapped, having heard the platitude more often than he'd like. "I know, but I'm making a choice. I'm done. I'm moving on."

John had a difficult time with eye contact, and never more so than when he was trapped in this afterthought of a room with Dr. Ella Pengham. So, when this declaration garnished no response, it was only with great force of will that John managed to lift his eyes to her patient grey ones. She was a dignified woman of middle age, with sharp features and a knowing smirk. She had clearly been waiting for him to look at her so that when he did, she could really sock it to him: "Then you know what you have to do."

What He Had To Do was what he had most resisted: Saying the Unsaid Things. For John, not only did he want to keep them unsaid, but also unthought, unfelt, and entirely unaddressed. But that night, as he laid in bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling for the 429th day in a row, he realized there could be no further resistance; the Unsaid must be Said.

So, here he was, staring at the reflection of himself staring at a tombstone, standing in the place where his shoes had worn proper furrows in the earth. He cleared his throat.

"Hey," he choked.

Usually this would be the end of it. A formal greeting, a minute or two more spent staring, and then his departure. But today was different.

"Hey," he said again, his voice a little stronger this time. "I, uh.... I know... I know what you look like down there. Stages of decay and all that. You remember how adamant you were that I read your report on the stages of decay? It was actually really good, I mean, it was brilliant actually--"

He cut himself off. This was not what he came here to discuss. He glanced surreptitiously around the rest of the graveyard to ensure his solitude. He was disappointed to see he was in fact, quite alone, and he had no excuse to abandon this venture.

"Right," he said. He settled defensively into his coat and closed his eyes, and instead of doing his utmost to pretend the horrible clenching in his chest wasn't there, he focused on it. "Right," he repeated, his voice much softer and deeper. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Christ." He chuckled softly. "I don't think I've said your name for... God, weeks -- no, months. Easily months, yeah. It hurts." He inhaled deeply through his nose and let it out in a groan. "Everything about you hurts. Thinking about you hurts. Not thinking about you... probably hurts worse. Saying your name, yeah, that's... that's awful. I can't-- I've been seeing a psychologist to help me talk about you. But I can't. Because talking about you..." he shook his head and trailed off. "Obviously, talking to you is also... I'm not good at this kind of thing. But, I, um. I have to move on. I have to... to get over you."

The slate grey day that had been threatening since dawn finally started to crack, and a gentle rain started to fall. John hadn't brought an umbrella, but he was grateful for the noise cancellation the rain provided. He felt safer, more cocooned despite the cold, and it gave him courage to speak. "I'm engaged to be married. To a woman named Mary. She's a... She's a good woman. She cares about me a lot -- more than I deserve. She puts up with me and my-- Nevermind, I don't... That's not what I want to talk to you about. I guess what I wanted to say is... I don't love her. Not like I should. I'm only marrying her to feel... I don't know, to feel like I have something grounding me to the earth. To just not be alone. But I am--" John's voice cracked and he could feel himself start to shake. He ground his teeth, took a breath, and soldiered on. "I am alone. I'll always be alone. I'm alone-- I'm alone every instant I'm not with you. Because I love you. I love you so much, I--"

An agonized sob escaped him and he covered his face with his hands, curling forward to stymie the increasing pain in his chest. But now that he had started, he couldn't stop. "I love you so fucking much. I can't-- Oh, shit, I can't breath." He forced himself to take a few labored breaths, but his words wouldn't wait. "It was, oh, I don't know, probably the first week-- The first week we were together I wanted to just... be with you for the rest of my life. I dated around, because-- I don't know, because I wanted to seem... straight, probably. Normal, definitely. Because I didn't want to face that you couldn't love be back. I guess I knew we wouldn't be together forever, not how I wanted, anyway, and if I found someone else, that would mean leaving you on my own terms. But of course I couldn't fall in love with any of those women; how was I supposed to care when I met my soul mate... My bloody soul mate, my..." Fists clenched, face red, and heart pounding, John screamed into the falling rain at the top of his lungs, "MY SOUL MATE!"

He was dizzy when he came back to himself, his voice still echoing across the graveyard. "I met my bloody soul mate, but there was nothing I could do about it. One-way soul mates shouldn't exist, should they? It's not fair. It's not... But I was happy, as long as I could be with you. As long as I could see you every day. As long as I could hear you rattling about the flat at odd hours, and I knew you were alright. But you-- You took that away from me, didn't you? You did. To think, all this time I was so worried about some criminal getting his hands on you, and in the end it was... it was you."

He snorted hard, annoyed by the snot and tears that were pouring down his face. The rain was little help in rinsing him, and he batted at his face with his sleeves to clear it.

"I guess..." he wheezed, "I guess that's it. That's... what I haven't been able to face all this time. That I... I love you. More than I've ever loved anything. Anyone. And I hate you. I hate you so much for doing this to me. I hate you so much."

He hid his face in his hands again and let the pain overwhelm him. At one point, he felt the wet, muddy loam against his knees, and he knew that he'd lost his footing. So, he knelt there on the softening earth, sobbing out the anguish of his perpetually breaking heart.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock crouched in the bushes, long black coat brushing the damp grass. Despite his resentment of sentiment and emotion, this was a location he hadn't been able to separate his heart from. Not because of obvious reasons - it was his grave, after all. A reflective black gravestone shone not ten feet away, with his name engraved on it, and wilted flowers lied at the base untouched for months. There were only a few compared to many other graves he'd seen since, but each and every one came from John, and that made them special.

John. Four simple letters that never seemed to grant him a moment of peace. That everything in Sherlock's life seemed to orbit around. The man that taught him to love, that convinced him against all odds to allow a heart to develop in the dark void of his chest for the first time since childhood. John Watson was the reason he continued to reappear here, time after time, even after he was certain even Molly had forgiven him. Nearly once a week he sat here in solitude, staring at the uneven ground where his friend's unlaced boots had once stood in agony, pleading with his unseen love to return. And God, he'd been tempted to just slip out of his hiding spot and take John into his clumsy embrace, apologizing for the hours of pain he'd caused him and begging for forgiveness. In those moments, his small heart shattered, and regardless of whether or not he was truly a sociopath as he claimed, it hurt like hell.

For four hundred and twenty-nine days, this had been his reality. Pain filled day after pain filled day, every moment he spent without John was unbearable. He never realized how much he longed for John's prescense until he was absent, far away and unreachable.

As he sat there, leaning heavily against the rough bark of an oak tree, rain straightening the stubborn curls atop his head, it felt like an invisible weight was pressing down on his chest. John had constructed, during the short time they'd shared, a heart inside of it, and now it felt like it was being crushed. Not all at once, but with a slow, torturous agony that never seemed to release him. Regret? Loneliness? Love? The words were unfamiliar and alien as his whispered them under his breath, because surely someone like Sherlock Holmes was incapable of such confusing emotions. But as much as he was unable to fully comprehend what he was feeling, he was certain that he was correct.

Somehow, John Watson had unintentionally taught a sociopath how to care, and despite the agonizing pain, he was so very grateful for the opportunity.

Sherlock was so absorbed in his thoughts that he barely noticed the splashing of someone's feet on the ground, entering the graveyard. Through the hazy grey that seemed to encompass every living being in the area, his eyes fixed upon a familiar cream colored sweater. Nearly choking on the tears that he was forcing back, he hardly dared to trust his eyes. But as the figure emerged from the fog, he quickly realized that his eyes were not deceiving him. The man who caused all of this suffering for him was standing in front of his tombstone, not ten feet away, and he was crying. Jesus Christ, he was crying his eyes out as he stood there, so very alone, so obviously abandoned, and poured his heart out to a friend that he knew would never reply.

A pang of guilt hit Sherlock like a punch to his gut, the pain spreading quickly, unstoppable. It was unbearable, just sitting there, watching as the only person he'd ever loved suffered because of his actions. Perhaps he should have died on that rooftop, been devoured by the same dark oblivion that took Moriarty, the only person in the world who he could call his equal. The same darkness that was little by little taking John Watson for it's own. But he was a coward, he'd allowed his fear of dying to overcome anything human that remained alive inside of him.

"I love you." The words were desperate, lonely, lost and confused. Sherlock's breath refused to leave his lungs as he strained his ears, wondering if perhaps he'd misheard John's words. Because surely it was impossible that he loved him back, that the indescribable emotions flooding his heart and soul were shared by the man who caused them. Surely they couldn't be happy together. Surely Sherlock hadn't ruined a future they may have had together with his cowardice.

The rain dissolved most of his other words, but they were understood. Soul mate. Dear God, what had he done?

As he finished, tears streaming down his face, Sherlock found himself brushing tears of his own away angrily. John crumpled helplessly to the ground, and there was no one there to help him back up to his feet. No one. In that moment, he looked so utterly alone that it was like being struck in the chest - all the breath left his lungs, leaving him gasping for air, eyes never leaving John's desperate body curled up on the wet grass. John, he knew, had always been there when he was needed, always dragged him back to his feet. Now was his time to repay that debt.

Considering his options, he forced rational thinking back into his mind. Staying here, not helping John, would destroy him. But revealing himself may very well cause both of their deaths. Damn emotions, why wouldn't they leave him alone? There was no choice, there never was.

Crawling towards his friend, he put a gentle hand on his trembling shoulder. He didn't respond right away, surprisingly. In the pouring rain, it was doubtful that he even felt it, and if he did he probably assumed it was Molly, or someone else who might be here. "Shhh," he murmured, because that's what people are supposed to do . . . right? It felt like the right thing to do regardless. Choking back tears, he managed to croak out, "It's okay, John. I'm here now. And . . . " He couldn't bring himself to say it. All those dark hours he spent rehearsing this very moment, and now he couldn't even force his lips to move. He forgot every second, every sentence, every syllable he was supposed to say, but knew he had to say it.

"I love you too." The four simple words escaped his tongue as he fumbled for the right words to convey the confusing emotions that were erupting from his chest. "I love you so much, John. I'm so, so, sorry I left you. God . . . I'm so fucking sorry . . . please. I won't ask you to forgive me. But I need you to know . . . ." His trembling hands stroked his friend's damp hair, tears streaming down his face uncontrollably.

 

[GV Butterworth]

It took several moments for John to register that he was being touched and spoken to. His instinctual reaction was to push away. Immediately after doing so, his senses betrayed him. They scattered into a patchwork of images, sound, and sensation, all glimpsed in fragments through a veil of black. There were familiar hands, the smell of home, the resonance of a voice he thought he'd heard hundreds of times in the street, and the hysterical realization that he had gone quite insane.

Time collapsed and when the black cleared from John's eyes, the only thing he could remember was falling to his knees. But now, here he was, on his feet, chest heaving, knuckles wet with blood, shaking uncontrollably, and looming over a beaten man on the ground who looked every bit like the heart he'd lost.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock made no effort to get back up, simply flopped his head onto the wet ground and dissolved into misery. Blood and tears trickled down his cheeks, even the heavy rain incapable of erasing them from his pale face. Shock and pain and those damned tears blurred his vision as he reached up a trembling hand, as if to touch John's face, before releasing it back to the soft ground. He had no motivation to attempt to regain his footing, and came to the conclusion that if the love of his life left him here, then he would never get up. There was no point - John was his entire world, everything revolved around him. Losing him would be like a bullet through his heart - painful and fatal.

His friend, his love, his heart, his entire world. The man he could never bring himself to harm had suddenly betrayed him, breaking his nose and his heart in a single movement. Sherlock tried to speak but his lips wouldn't cooperate, tongue paralyzed in his mouth. I'm sorry, John. I should have known that you'd never forgive me, my love. Nor should you, now or ever.

 

[GV Butterworth]

First, John let out a string of sounds, nothing more than aborted words that never found shape. Next, his legs gave out from under him. He landed hard against Sherlock's headstone, gripping helplessly at the rain-slick headstone, trying to keep himself upright. Then, the tremors. The tremors were what he remembered most about being shot. The pain of it had faded in his mind, but the teeth-chattering, organ-loosing response to the adrenaline rampaging through his system was all too familiar.

He clung to Sherlock's headstone, his body quaking against it. The very-Sherlock-like form that he had glimpsed was still there, unmoving. John could see it breathing. Where his legs had failed him, his arms excelled and he tugged at the too recognizable Belstaff, manhandling the other man until he could see the face of the ghost that haunted him.

"Fucking hell. It is you."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock was on the verge of giving in when John yanked him up, inspecting his tear-stained face. A misunderstanding? How very like John, to beat up the person who mattered most to him as a result of a misinterpretation of his surroundings. Granted, they were in the middle of a storm, but the thought momentarily amused him. Nothing was particularly funny in this situation, but he couldn't help but allow an arrogant grin to stretch across his face. It was halfhearted and allowed salty tears to enter his thin lips, but he needed to smile. Another thing John had taught him - smiling is the best way to manage pain, and this burning agony was the worst of any he'd experienced.

"What gave it away?" Sarcasm was the only thing he was capable of right now. He'd already poured his heart out to the love of his life, and he was emotionally exhausted. Besides, he assumed John needed a spark of light as much as he did in the absence of the raging fire they used to possess. Sherlock's pale hand moved to gently rest upon John's, both of them trembling from both shock and cold. The smile faded from his features, leaving only a faint trace, and a serious expression reappeared.

"I'm sorry, John. For everything."

 

[GV Butterworth]

Sherlock was on the verge of giving in when John yanked him up, inspecting his tear-stained face. A misunderstanding? How very like John, to beat up the person who mattered most to him as a result of a misinterpretation of his surroundings. Granted, they were in the middle of a storm, but the thought momentarily amused him. Nothing was particularly funny in this situation, but he couldn't help but allow an arrogant grin to stretch across his face. It was halfhearted and allowed salty tears to enter his thin lips, but he needed to smile. Another thing John had taught him - smiling is the best way to manage pain, and this burning agony was the worst of any he'd experienced.

"What gave it away?" Sarcasm was the only thing he was capable of right now. He'd already poured his heart out to the love of his life, and he was emotionally exhausted. Besides, he assumed John needed a spark of light as much as he did in the absence of the raging fire they used to possess. Sherlock's pale hand moved to gently rest upon John's, both of them trembling from both shock and cold. The smile faded from his features, leaving only a faint trace, and a serious expression reappeared.

"I'm sorry, John. For everything."

John was having a difficult time processing information while in the grips of a trauma response. There was still a screaming in the back of his brain that insisted he was completely barking. He'd dreamed of Sherlock, chased down strangers who had any semblance of bearing, and sleep-walked around the neighborhood searching for him. It wouldn't be entirely out of character for John to have taken a further step into madness.

But then Sherlock grinned. He was cracking jokes in a tasteless way that John would never have concocted in his own mind. The situation became painfully clear to John after that. "You... COCK!" he barked, his grip tightening on Sherlock's lapels. "You utter, utter COCK!" After a fierce shaking, John smashed in down in the mud and roared, "Do you have any idea what you did to me!?"

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock's smile faded completely as John shook his slender body with all of the force left in his weakened body. "I know . . . I've watched, John. I'm sorry . . . I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have to." John continued to shake him, screaming in his face before hurling him back down into the ground in a single violent movement. "He said he was going to kill you! Moriarty, he was going to shoot you right there as I watched. One of us had to die, John, and I was the only one with any chance of returning." A look of desperation appeared in his eyes, tears finally leaving his face.

Although he didn't fully comprehend the pain that his friend was in, he could understand that he'd done something terribly wrong, and it was doubtful that he'd ever be forgiven. Regardless, they were reunited, and for Sherlock, that was enough. They'd figure something out in the future, they'd work it out, but for right now simply speaking John was enough.

 

[GV Butterworth]

Sherlock's smile faded completely as John shook his slender body with all of the force left in his weakened body. "I know . . . I've watched, John. I'm sorry . . . I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have to." John continued to shake him, screaming in his face before hurling him back down into the ground in a single violent movement. "He said he was going to kill you! Moriarty, he was going to shoot you right there as I watched. One of us had to die, John, and I was the only one with any chance of returning." A look of desperation appeared in his eyes, tears finally leaving his face.

Although he didn't fully comprehend the pain that his friend was in, he could understand that he'd done something terribly wrong, and it was doubtful that he'd ever be forgiven. Regardless, they were reunited, and for Sherlock, that was enough. They'd figure something out in the future, they'd work it out, but for right now simply speaking John was enough.

"You-- You-- You WATCHED?" John snarled, awash with embarrassment and helplessness. He had not been at his best in the last year. He had made a somewhat convincing show of being a stable man -- the job, the new flat, the engagement to a caring woman -- but any closer examination would show a man in the process of slowly cracking up. It was more than once that Mary had run into the street after him in the middle of the night when his dreaming mind had convinced him Sherlock needed saving. The idea of Sherlock having witnessed him charging through the street in nothing but his smalls, screaming the name of his friend, while his wife struggled to tie her bathrobe on and catch him at the same time filled him with a humiliation that was too unbearable to endure. "You bastard," he growled, scrambling on his hands and knees to find his cane. "You right bloody bastard!"

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Eventually, John's anger infected Sherlock, and his volume increased as he spoke his next words. He'd done everything in his power to protect John, and this was the "thank you" he received? He may not be an expert on emotions, but even a sociopath could recognize the insulting unfairness in his words. It was true that his friend had perhaps not had the most impressive success with coping with Sherlock's "death". But nothing that the universe could send their way could possibly convince him that John wasn't the single most incredible human being he'd ever met. Irritated, he shouted above the rain, "What was I supposed to do instead John? Leave you forever? I wanted to come back, every single day I wanted to come back home to you, but I couldn't."

Sherlock hated appearing vulnerable, particularly in front of the man he loved, but he needed him to understand. Never before had he opened his heart, and it was difficult to force his lips to form the words. Searching for the right words, he started in a low voice a couple a times before cutting himself off. Finally he took a deep breath and simply said it. "I couldn't leave you John. I was there nearly every day, watching you, making sure you were safe. It pained me not to be able to return, to laugh with you, to hold you and say I'm sorry for everything I did. Harming you was never my intention. I wouldn't hurt you for any other reason, but it was the only way to save your life!"

Heart hammering in his chest, Sherlock bit his lip, immediately regretting his words. Why was this so damn difficult? Why were emotions so confusing? Why did Sherlock Holmes have to fall in love with the one man who he would end up hurting the most? "Listen. Listen to me, John. If you want to leave me, right now, just walk away and never come back, then do it. You'll never have to see my face again. I won't blame you. But if you're willing . . . if you're willing to forgive me for everything I put you through . . . I'm sure Mrs Hudson would be delighted to see us again, back in the old flat." He offered a halfhearted, trembling smile. In truth, he couldn't imagine a life without John by his side, and wasn't entirely sure how he would move forward if he left.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John had located his cane and was now attempting to stand on it. It was a difficult task, the way the cane kept sinking into the softened earth, but John was determined to regain his footing. "What is wrong with you?" he snapped waspishly at the man still on his back. "We can't just go back to normal, after all that time! If you'd been watching, you'd know that! You-- You LEFT!"

He made a gallant charge in the direction of the road, the mud sucking at his shoes. In less than five paces, however, he turned and charged back. For several unblinking moments, John could only stare at the man crumpled against his own gravestone. He looked so different -- perhaps it was his youthful enthusiasm, but John had always considered Sherlock something of a boy; the man trembling in the rain beneath him was every bit a man. John could see where the years had eaten into his face, but in John's eyes, he was as radiant as he'd ever been. The thing that made Sherlock John's Sherlock was still present and every bit as luminous as John remembered. That glow penetrated John's heart and rattled the locks he'd erected there.

"Get up!" he snarled, tugging at Sherlock's coat to get him on his feet. They were both water logged and unsteady on the slick ground, but John kept hold of his lapels in an unforgiving grip and commanded, "Now, you go out to that road, and hail us a cab. You still have that magic, don't you?" With a hard thrust, John sent him in the desired direction, intending that Sherlock should walk before him. When the man attempted to peek over his shoulder, John roared over the rain, "Don't look back! Just walk!"

Despite Sherlock's reassurances that he had been watching John daily for these last months, John didn't much relish having his reanimated friend's eyes on him as he limped pathetically along in the rain. Nor did he want him to witness the extreme state of his disturbance: he was still shaking and he was a ghost of his former self. He watched the long, dark coat billowing before him, equally disturbed and enchanted by the growing acceptance that Sherlock Holmes lived again.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock watched helplessly as John turned and made his way back towards the road. He understood the decision, it was the most logical conclusion to come to after all they'd gone through together, but he still couldn't resist from collapsing back into the emotions that were determined to overwhelm him. Leaning back against his tombstone, he made no move to escape the pouring rain. He wasn't entirely sure where he would be going next, but in this instant he wasn't sure if he wanted to continue onward in life without John Watson by his side.

As Sherlock watched the man he loved fade into the distance in the space of only a few moments because of the pouring rain, it was like the heart he'd constructed over the past three hears had been ripped forcefully out of his chest. Perhaps it had never truly been his in the first place. Maybe his heart had always belonged to John. He could still remember everything he loved about his friend. His determination, his selflessness, his hilarious ignorance that allowed Sherlock to impress him every chance he got. Admittedly, it was rather childish, something Molly would do, but he couldn't help but wonder what sort of future they may have had together. Obviously, John wasn't as straight as he constantly insisted. Maybe . . . maybe if none of this had ever happened . . . . But fantasizing about alternate realities wasn't going to change this one, and as he watched John leave him time seemed to slow down.

Because of the emotions swirling through his brain (he'd always known they were dangerous), he nearly missed the signs. John was hesitant, an internal war being waged. Simply by watching him, he suddenly knew that it was not the end. Suddenly, John turned around and charged back through the soft mud, only stopping a mere foot away from him. Sherlock locked eyes with him as he inspected him. He realized how vulnerable he must appear, but it was rather accurate to how he was currently handling the situation.

Grabbing Sherlock by the collar, John yanked him up from the ground with force Sherlock didn't know he possessed. Sherlock couldn't help but be irritated as his friend demanded he hail a cab, not only because he despised being ordered around, but also because his ridiculous mind palace kept flashing images of the times they laughed together as John tried to hail a cab. How they spoke briefly in the back, side by side, on the first day they met. The first person who'd ever been impressed by his abilities for more than an hour after meeting him. Glancing behind him, he saw the same old John, just a bit tired, like the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders. He could have stood right in that very spot, watching John, for hours, but John obviously disagreed. "Don't look back! Just walk!"

And so he did. When he reached the road he quickly managed to hail a cab, and despite their appearance the driver didn't react beyond his obvious annoyance. Swinging the door open, Sherlock gestured for John to enter the car first, then followed him. Numb fingers fumbling with the seat belt, he couldn't help but to sneak glances at his friend. Was that even the correct word anymore--friend? So much had happened in the last fifteen minutes, it was like his entire world had been flipped over violently and now faced an entirely new direction.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John pulled himself into the cab with the same grace of someone falling down the stairs. Though winded, he barked his destination at the cabbie and settled his cane defensively across his lap.

The address he had given was to the very location he had intended to go after having voiced his confession. He had envisioned himself getting the harrowing business at the grave over with and immediately treating himself to the aggressive coffee and aromatic falafel of Pilpel. Practically, he was still on schedule with his day, only with the added baggage of a living dead flatmate.

He didn't look at Sherlock in the cab. He didn't even acknowledge him as he paid the fare and exited traffic-side. Pilpel was a utilitarian establishment, with a counter for ordering and three bright orange bench-tables along the wall. The owners were Pakistani and John thought they had the best-spiced falafel in the city. He ordered and paid for two plates of their magnificent chickpea dish, and two cups of their decadently tar-thick coffee. Then he occupied one of the bench tables, exactly as he would if he were alone.

He felt rather than saw Sherlock sit across from him and John said peremptorily, "I'm not talking to you until I've eaten."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock didn't bother speaking. He'd always considered it to be a bit of a waste, as much of the information people need can be found simply by looking hard enough. Instead, he simply stared intently at John for the entire ride, although he was far too distracted to possibly accomplish much. Reading his friend had always been far too difficult, everything about him so remarkable and unique that nothing seemed as obvious as it always had with others. He searched for the right word to describe it, but doubted one existed. John was special. That was something he'd never questioned.

Remaining silent as he was lead inside the building, he found himself unprepared for reentering the real world. Everything was so busy, so filled with life--something he'd lacked during the past year and a half. It seemed to be an acceptable place to spend a bit of time. Quiet enough, not particularly busy, and very little chance of somebody recognizing the undead detective. Pilpel, the neon sign announced a bit too dramatically, the sign below boasting of its long hours and fast, efficient service.

John casually ordered food while Sherlock slid into one of the colorful tables. Just like their first case together, as if somehow they'd been transported back to the relatively uneventful old days, when neither of them had to worry about . . . well, whatever their current situation was called. Soon, his friend returned with two platefuls of some sort of dish that John seemed to believe was by far the most interesting thing that had happened today. Grimacing, Sherlock placed a small forkful on his tongue. He hardly ever ate proper meals except for on rare occasions, and only then to please John.

After swallowing and rinsing it out of his mouth with the ice cold drink he'd been given, he opened his mouth to force in the second and last bite he was going to take. He didn't get a chance before being interrupted by his friend demanding that he stay silent until they'd finished.

"Wasn't planning on it . . . . " The minutes until John finished eating ticked by painfully slowly. When finally he reached his last full bite, he seemed to relish it far longer than should have been possible. At last he swallowed and turned to face Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John sighed deeply after he swallowed. He felt better. The heavy fried food on his stomach calmed the tremors that had wracked his body and he'd mustered a state of equanimity. A stink of swamp was fuming out of their muddy, wet coats and John leaned back in his chair, breathing it deep.

He finally faced Sherlock's accusing and inquisitive expression. In response, he defaulted immediately to the old pattern they shared: He glanced down at Sherlock's nearly untouched plate with an equally accusing and expectant expression of his own. It was clear that the conversation would not be moving forward until Sherlock had made a bigger dent in his meal.

When the other man didn't shift immediately, John dug in. He put his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his knotted fingers in a gesture that stated plainly, I can sit here all day.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock glared at his friend in immense irritation, his accusing expression clearly stating that they would not have anything resembling a reasonable conversation until he'd finished eating. John had devoured the food in precisely one minute and fifty-one seconds, possibly a record, and Sherlock couldn't fathom how that was even physically possible. Sherlock didn't immediately respond, raising an inquisitive and slightly annoyed eyebrow, hoping that as a result of the massive shock John had experienced he might give in a bit easier.

It had just the opposite effect. John leaned forward, planting his elbows firmly into the brightly colored table, and stared at him intensely. It was clear he'd lost none of his stubbornness in the years of Sherlock's absence. The gesture clearly sent the message that they would stay here for however long it took for him to finish his meal. With a scowl, he shoved a few more bites in his mouth, and distributed the remaining food around the plate to create the illusion that he'd eaten far more than he had in reality. Scooping up a couple more spoonfuls, he chewed with a look of disgust on his face before placing everything neatly back down on the table.

Leaning back against the wall, he turned back to his friend and looked at him expectantly. Sherlock was not initiating this conversation, firstly because he was certain to get something wrong, and secondly because John was obviously in no mood to tolerate his mistakes.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John made himself comfortable. He cuddled his coffee to his chest and let the strength of the chair support him. Whereas in the cab, John hadn't been able to acknowledge Sherlock, now he couldn't look away. Everything was too familiar and as John watched him eat, he felt Time forget itself: This could very well be three years ago, after a mad case, both of them sitting here, John patiently sipping his coffee, Sherlock petulantly cleaning his plate as he was told. John could imagine they would both return to 221 B together. John would make tea they wouldn't drink. Sherlock would babble about case details NSY had missed, and where the killer had made his mistake. Then they'd turn on the TV and not watch it until John started to doze and finally retreat to bed. Paradise.

Except for everything being exactly the same, everything was different. The gaping year old wound that excoriated him was in no way diminished; in fact, seeing Sherlock, his very Sherlock across from him, alive and having lied, made the ache even more acute. So much so in fact, that John felt his breathing start to pick up and his blood start to pound. He put the coffee cup back on the table when his hands started shaking again.

When he realized Sherlock had eaten all he was going to, having spread his food about the plate like a child, John met his eyes and said as steadily as he could, "Start from the beginning. I'm most interested in the part where you decided to--" His throat closed around all of his word options: Lie to me, Betray me, Leave me behind. So he just reiterated, "Start from the beginning."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock continued to gaze into the eyes of his friend for several moments before responding. He'd barely changed physically, but everything was so different about him. His eyes held within them a deep sort of unbearable sorrow that both of them were constantly aware of. He held himself in a defeated way that he didn't seem to notice himself, but was very apparent to Sherlock. Shoulders dropped downwards, hands clasped in a nervous way as if his dead friend was threatening to disappear at any moment. Maybe that would be for the better, Sherlock thought, as it seemed John wasn't particularly thrilled to be reunited with the man he confessed just a few short minutes ago he was in love with.

Clearing his throat, he replayed John's words inside his mind, contemplating his answer. Once again, he found himself lost as he searched for the right things to say, the words that would allow all the hurt and scars he'd created in his friend's heart to be erased. It would certainly take time but . . . but maybe they could spend it together. Together. It was a possibility he'd never considered, that they may have a future together, as something other than close friends. It was nothing but a fantasy, and even thinking of it was illogical at best, but he couldn't banish the thought from his mind.

"John." He said, taking a deep breath. "I . . . I suppose it started the day it happened. I'd considered every possibility of what might happen on that roof, but I never anticipated what really happened. Jumping was a backup plan. I'd convince Moriarty of my death, and then return home to 221 B. It would've happened that way, too, if it weren't for you." Sherlock paused, allowing that to sink in. "He . . . he threatened to kill you, John. Molly too. Maybe Mrs. Hudson. If I didn't commit suicide, his followers were going to put a bullet through your head right then and there. So I jumped. And it worked, I survived, but I knew I couldn't come back. Not until every last one of his men were eliminated from the face of the planet. Not until I knew you were safe." He coughed to clear the tears from his throat. "I never would have left you if I could have helped it, John. But one of us had to die that day, and I was the only one with a chance of returning."

 

[GV Butterworth]

John's face was very stormy, indeed. He listened to every word Sherlock had to say, and even sat in silence when the man concluded, just in case there was anything forthcoming. He processed what he was told with a few rapid blinks of his eyes, before he stretched his arm out across the back of the chair next to him and leaned forward. "In that time," he said, his voice very low and raspy with hard-won restraint, "in two bloody years... Did it ever occur to you... that we were partners? That we did everything together? That we are always better together?"

His shoulders started to rise and fall as his anger got the better of him. "Did it ever," he choked, but started up again with fervor, "did it ever occur to you that I don't bloody need saving? That I'm a bloody war veteran? That if you were going to put yourself in danger, that I--" Again, his throat closed and he woofed hard to make it open again, "that I should have been there? I'm the one with combat experience, Sherlock! Did you think I was in-fucking-capable of taking care of myself? And you!? FOR TWO YEARS!"

He was roaring again, barely keeping himself in check, and looking likely to launch himself right over the thin, plastic table.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock was taken aback by his friend's reaction, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. He'd never heard John this angry before, and despite multiple occasions in which he'd been irritated with him he'd never seen this look in John's eye before. Hatred? Was it possible that the love of his life resented him with every bit of the heart and soul he had left? He realized how he'd betrayed the man, but it'd been for his own safety. He would never intentionally harm him, it would be like purposely breaking your own heart into millions of pieces. But John wasn't making this easy, not in the least. His anger infected Sherlock, twisting his face into a scowl.

He leaned forward so that their faces were only inches apart. "They had a gun aimed at your head! You wouldn't have time to defend yourself, John! They're trained, they don't make mistakes. And even if you did manage, by some miracle, to survive with those wonderful violent instincts of yours, what about Molly? She's a strong woman but there is no way in hell she'd beat an armed man who's been trained for years." He lowered his head, staring at the table, biting his lip. After a brief moment of silence, he continued. "Two years was the necessary amount of time to wait. If I'd returned any sooner you'd be dead right now! I did it for you John, and I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry that I couldn't find another way, but IT WAS THE ONLY OPTION!"

Sherlock's voice had raised from a low growl to a roar in the width of a few moments. He wasn't quite to John's level of uncontrollable anger, being a sociopath, but he was rather frustrated.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John's face was red, and his nostrils were flaring like a bull's about to charge. Paradoxically, when he finally did move, it was slow and meticulous. He reached for his soggy coat and drew close his cane. Then he leaned across the table into Sherlock's face, peeled his lips away from his teeth, and snarled, "Bull. Shit," with far more articulation than the word warranted.

It was well into pub hour when John clattered onto the pavement, and hailing a cab was no great feat. The great feat was waiting until he was in the privacy of the flat he shared with Mary to scream himself to pieces.

He actually thought he was going to get away with it. He actually thought he was going to be able to come back to his fiance and pretend (to the both of them) that nothing of note had happened. But it was only twenty minutes since he returned home that, as he was stripping out of his slimy clothes to take a shower, he began screaming as if the house were under mortar fire.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock was shaking as John left, managing to hail a cab quickly despite his questionable success in the past. He didn't attempt to follow him. If John wanted privacy, he'd get it. If he wanted to never lay eyes on his friend again, then Sherlock would forgive him for that. But he couldn't help but feel like he'd just been robbed of his one and only chance at happiness. Using the wall for support, he leaned back and closed his eyes, not wanting to be disturbed for a few moments.

Eventually he went outside and hailed a cab, suddenly rather aware of how awful he must look. His hair was a gigantic mess that looked as if it'd been soaked in mud and then thrown carelessly atop his head. His eyes were exhausted and the remnants of tears streaked his face before he angrily wiped them away.

221 B was peaceful and quieter than usual. This was the typical time for Mrs. Hudson to be doing her daily cleaning routine, but he was in no mood to explain himself to her as well. Avoiding her favorite spots, he made his way to his bedroom and slammed the door like a small child. His entire world was caving in, his heart was finally betraying him as he always knew it would. Throwing himself into his personal chair (and praying no one had sat in it in his absence) he screamed into the cushions, releasing all of the built up anger. He was done. Done with emotions. Done with happiness. Done with love. Done with John Watson, who'd put him back together only to break him into a million pieces.

 

[GV Butterworth]

Two days later, and the weather still hadn't changed. It was still a grey, rainy sleet that made night and day nearly indistinguishable. Any Englishman with the option to stay at home in front of a fire with an improving book would be so doing, and those whose responsibilities sent them into the iced gloominess did so cursing.

When Sherlock finally deigned to leave his room, he found a familiar figure sat in his armchair, both suit and umbrella mysteriously dry despite the day's perpetual drizzle. The fire was roaring healthily and the two cups of tea on respective end tables were still steaming and inviting. Mycroft looked every bit at home.

Foregoing any formalities, Mycroft regarded his brother placidly and accused, "I thought we agreed to wait until the holidays."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock was aware of his brother entering the flat before he intentionally sat down in the armchair always reserved for Sherlock. Groaning, he dragged himself out of bed, where he'd spent the majority of his hours over the past few days, and into the bathroom where he made a futile attempt to appear presentable. The last thing he needed was his brother's concern, and he certainly was not in the mood to face Mycroft's disapproval when he saw the state of his little brother. Running a comb through his hair, he scowled as the curls bounced back up to a completely unacceptable position. After a moment, he gave up and simply washed his face, hoping he didn't look quite as bad in person as he did in his reflection.

Strolling into the main room, the heat from the fire assaulted him and he paused a moment before speaking. "Hello, brother dear," he muttered in an exasperated voice. Ignoring the accusing tone in his brother's voice, he collapsed into the chair opposite him and took a sip of the warm tea as if nothing significant had happened. "I suppose I must have gotten my days confused. Not all that difficult considering I've been forced to live the past four hundred and thirty one days in hiding, isolated from every human being that ever lived."

 

[GV Butterworth]

"You did that because you wanted to," Mycroft pointed out. If there was an extra hint of tetchiness in his voice, it was because Mycroft had always resented that even a newly-risen, uncaffinated, somewhat smelly Sherlock was still more charming than Mycroft could ever hope to be. But he would never let on. No, if Sherlock ever became aware of his own charisma and learned to harness that power, it would spell doom for the civilized world. Best to keep him squirming.

"May i ask exactly what it was that provoked you into revealing yourself and squandering four hundred and thirty one days' very hard work? Surely it wasn't John Watson crying over an empty grave. I thought you'd acclimated yourself to that at your funeral."