Someone Like You

Of all the scenarios, about how John would greet him when he got back home, Sherlock had imagined during his two-year “death”, this had never crossed his mind. Hadn’t their bond been unbreakable, undestroyable, mutual?

Bidrag til Alternative Universe konkurrencen, skrivedelen mulighed tre.

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3. Part III

Sherlock finally reached the top of the stairs after what felt like an eternity of worrying. He knocked curtly, however, the door wasn’t answered. He tried again, but to no avail, it would almost leave one to believe that John had gone out. His palm felt immensely sticky when he turned the knob in hope that the door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t and Sherlock was free to enter. He did, and as he had first suspected, nobody was home. The flat was in a chaotic state, yes, even to Sherlock the state of the flat had to be described as chaotic. It seemed like a suitable word for the broken mirror on the wall, at least twenty unwashed dishes in the sink, and the uncountable amount of papers strewn carelessly on the floor, covering every last inch of the hardwood floors. He picked up one of the papers, it was an article that had been brought in Daily Mail around a year ago, about himself, Sherlock Holmes the great detective. The piece described several conspiracy theories on how he had faked his own death because apparently a larger group of people were convinced that he had. Oh, how right they had been, clever humans.

 

He proceeded into his bedroom, where the sheets had clearly been slept in, judging by the lingering scent of gunpowder and strawberry jam. That was what first made him realize that it might really have gotten to John when he had left.

 

"You know I can't take that into consideration when solving a case John!"

“Oh, why?” John mocked. “Because you’re an insensitive arse, who doesn’t understand human emotions! Don’t you care about the people involved in the cases? She was grieving!” John raged and dragged both of his strong hands through his hair rapidly.

“It’s not like empathy helps to solve a case!” Sherlock shot back just as harshly. “I’m married to the Work, remember?” he gestured wildly with his hands and rolled his eyes at John.

“That’s clear, after all, you’re just a sociopath with no friends because you would rather spend time with a goddamn skull!” John threw the skull at Sherlock who ducked just in time. The shock came in waves, crashing over him until he realized exactly what John had said. He was about to spit a nasty comment in defense when the anger faded almost completely, leaving a harsh truth, John was going to leave.

“I do have a friend.” Sherlock’s voice wobbled at the accusation. “I have you, John.” a single tear spilled down his cheek at the thought of not having John in his life. He wasn't quite sure why.

“Not anymore.” John slammed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock crying, yes crying, to pick up the pieces in the late August sun, if there were any to pick up.

 

The state of the bathroom wasn’t any prettier. Mrs. Hudson surely hadn’t been allowed up here, otherwise she would have cleaned this mess, and then probably scolded John for not cleaning it himself. However, what surprised Sherlock the most was that when he drew back the shower curtain he found a bloody razor lying on the floor tiles. He picked up the object and studied it. From the state of the blood, he deduced that the incident had happened yesterday. Oh lord, yesterday, when he had been busy fooling around with some chick, John had been miserable. He smashed his fist against the wall and sunk to his knees. This, he looked at the razor clutched in his left hand, this was his fault. His vision quickly became blurry, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something colorful. Sniffling, he leaned across the floor to pick it up, it was a photograph of Lestrade, John and himself smiling widely at the camera. Sherlock chuckled through the tears.

 

It will be fun, they had said. You will actually get to have a social life, they had said. Who knows, you might even have a good time, they had said.

“You know, you might even enjoy it.” John teased and poked him in the ribs with his elbow. The reddish-orange leaves covered the pavement and the usual Halloween atmosphere hung over the city, on this October night. The wind tousled Sherlock's hair, that had gotten a little longer than he normally preferred, yet he didn’t bother getting a haircut. It was a waste of time when one was in the middle of solving a huge case.

“I could have a breakthrough tonight, John. And then it will be your fault I didn’t because you dragged me here.”

“I’m sure you’re plenty capable of having a breakthrough here as well, now come on.” John leads the way through the door to the bar and quickly located Lestrade over by a table, holding a beer in his hand.

“Here you go. I ordered a beer for each of you as well.” Lestrade handed them each a beer. Sherlock took a small sip.

“I’m more of a vodka sunrise type,” he commented and placed the beer down on the table.

“I didn’t think you had a preference.” Lestrade laughed.

“Me neither.” John agreed, laughing along. “Drink up!” he handed Sherlock his glass again. Sherlock frowned. As the hours passed by the empty glasses piled up on their table. Sherlock went to get another round of beers from the bar when Lestrade began telling a story in a slurred manner. The bartender eyed Sherlock up and down and discreetly licked his lips.

“You seem to be having fun, do you maybe wanna go have some more out back?” the bartender winked at him.

“You’re married,” Sherlock commented when he noticed the fresh imprints of a ring on the man’s left ring finger. “Not happily, I would presume, otherwise you wouldn’t be taking your ring off for work in case you should spot a newer model, pathetic really.” he finished by turning on his heel and walked back to the table.

“He couldn’t even walk, so I had to carry him the police car.” Lestrade had just finished his story with a big laugh and satisfaction in his voice when Sherlock returned. John laughed loudly and far longer than what was appropriate. Sherlock joined in the laughing too. “Come on, let’s take a selfie. So, we can forever remember that Sherlock was drunk once too.” Lestrade suggested. Both Sherlock and John eagerly agreed, far too drunk to care.

“3...2...1, smile!” They all smiled like true idiots and the camera clicked.

 

The living room was probably in an even worse condition than when Sherlock had lived there. Sherlock was truly grateful when he didn’t find any objects in the living area that had been used for self-harm. The tears weren’t pouring down his cheeks anymore, one can only cry so much, but he still sniffled occasionally. As he had seen when he had first entered papers were strewn everywhere, it almost seemed like John had been looking for something, clearly of importance to him, otherwise, he surely would have cleaned this mess. Maybe he had been too broken? It had started raining outside.

 

The sun had left the sky hours ago and god knew what time it was, still, here they were, strolling through the streets of London on a Wednesday night. Sherlock was discreetly trying to hide a cigarette behind his back and took a puff each time John’s attention was elsewhere. The stars sparkled overhead and the rain placed soft, wet drops on Sherlock’s beloved Belstaff coat. The winter had grabbed London only just last week, but the temperature was already below 0 degrees Celsius at night. Sherlock exhaled and his hot breath mixed with cigarette smoke could clearly be seen in the frosty night air.

“Began smoking again did you, Sherlock?” John cocked one eyebrow in a teasing manner.

“Nothing of the sort, search me.” Sherlock challenged with a smirk. He dropped the smoke on the pavement and took a step back to successfully put it out, squashing it with his shoe.

“Gladly.” John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and stopped walking. He started patting down Sherlock’s coat only to find empty pockets. John looked critically at Sherlock.

“Where do you keep them then?” John’s voice was still teasing but it had an edge of irritation to it,

“You tell me,” Sherlock responded holding out his arms to the sides. The shorter man patted down the length of both of his arms but found nothing. Next, he stuck his hands under Sherlock’s coat and searched his suit jacket.

“Is there like a secret pocket in here or something?” John started pulling at the fabric, searching for a pocket that wasn’t actually there. He kept tugging at the material for a while, to no avail. John looked up at Sherlock with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Sherlock, did you -” He was quickly cut off by Sherlock’s harsh lips claiming his plush ones. First, John groaned in confusion, it had been a very sudden move and his brain hadn’t comprehended what had happened. Litlle after little John relaxed into the kiss and ultimately tugged on Sherlock’s scarf to bring them closer together. Sherlock moaned quietly before pulling away tenderly. Their eyes met for a brief second, then Sherlock cut off their connection by proceeding in a hasty tempo, down the street through the rain, not quiet wanting to acknowledge what he had just done, but satisfied nonetheless. A tiny smile played on Sherlock’s lips and he started humming to himself.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John announced after catching up to his mate.

“I’m humming,” Sherlock responded in a glad tone. “I’m not afraid anymore, I’m not afraid,” he sang. “Forever is a long time, but I wouldn’t mind it by your side.” he went back to humming the melody to himself.

“I meant what you just did, doofus.” John laughed but hummed along anyway, a little off melody.

“Oh, you didn’t -” Sherlock avoided eye contact and stopped humming to focus on the sky instead. “You didn’t like it?” he asked nervously. What was going on with all the sudden sentiment? First crying, then being abruptly impulsive in initiating a kiss, and now being nervous when asking a simple, factual question?

“I did, it’s just that it was very sudden,” John confessed sheepishly.

“It’s all in the element of surprise John,” Sherlock said before he started humming quietly again.

 

He hummed the tune to himself while rummaging through the papers on the kitchen table. Most of them were articles about him either before or after he had faked his death. Along with the tons of paper lay a single cd, Sherlock leaned across the table to pick it up, he immediately recognized the band, He Is We. He remembered John used to tease him about the fact that he liked soft, mushy music when they had first become flatmates, but after their little encounter in the rain, John had come to love a specific song on that album. It had been as close to a ‘their song’ as they had ever come.

 

It was just after Christmas, which Sherlock had spent with John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, who had recently gotten divorced. He and John were tidying up the Christmas decorations when he stumbled upon something he had been looking for for a while. John noticed that Sherlock had stopped removing the ornaments from the tree and came to look at what he had found.

“Is that?” John asked, letting the rest off the question remain unsaid as he touched the dusty plastic cover.

“It is,” Sherlock confirmed popping the case open and removing the cd. He put the cd on the cd player and skipped to the only song that really mattered on the album anymore.

 

Merrily we fall

Out of line, out of line

I’d fall anywhere with you

I’m by your side

 

Swinging in the rain

Humming melodies

We're not going anywhere until we freeze

 

I’m not afraid, anymore

I’m not afraid

 

Forever is a long time

But I wouldn't mind spending it by your side

 

They sat quietly humming, enjoying the music, that had once sounded obnoxious to John, but that he now was extremely fond of. Sherlock started quietly singing along to the song and tapping his foot to the beat. The music flowed through his body as he listened to every word. He knew now that he wasn’t afraid of sentiment anymore, or at least not as much as he used to be, not with John in his life.

 

Sherlock sat softly crying in his chair, which was still there in the middle of the flat opposite John’s, just as he had left it. From what he could deduce through a heavy smog of emotions John had preferred Sherlock’s chair after he had left, of course, he had, it was the closest he could get to Sherlock, besides sleeping in his bed.

 

The song, their song as he had come to think of it, was playing in the background, and just like on that winter day, he listened closely to the beautifully composed verses, this time in sadness, he had caused John pain and it was killing him. The thought of hurting his beloved friend stung deep inside and he let out a sob. He buried his head in his hands and pulled at the roots of his hair. It’s scientifically proven that one people cannot feel pain in more than one place at a time, but however hard he tugged and ripped at his curls the aching in his chest was still present, and it wouldn’t go away, no matter how forcefully he pulled at his hair. He now understood what John had been trying to do, move the pain.

 

Maybe it had worked for John. Maybe it hadn’t. He let go of his hair because he had concluded that there was no use in ripping out his hair, if it didn’t transfer the pain, or rather the ache might be a more suitable description because it wasn’t over in a flash, it clung to his being. It was like being stung mildly again and again until you couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t the same pain he had felt when he had been tortured, this was worse. As Sherlock sat contemplating whether or not he should wait for John to come back from wherever he was, he must surely be out, he noticed an envelope amongst all the newspaper articles. It lay trapped under the foot of John’s chair, sealed, but with no stamp. He quickly retrieved the letter, that had his name on it in sloppy shaky writing. A somewhat crumpled piece of paper was concealed inside.

 

 

17. 10. 2013

Sherlock,

Here I am again spending a rainy Sunday afternoon writing you a letter that you will never read. I feel quite pathetic for doing this, but my psychiatrist advised me to talk to someone about what happened, but I only want to talk to you. I think Mrs. Hudson noticed, she comes up here every day and tries to convince me to go back to the clinic or meet up with Lestrade so that I can at least talk to him. But I don’t want to, I think that’s what she doesn’t understand, that I don’t want to. You might think me horribly rude for this, but I just feel so alone, but at the same time, I don’t want company, because they don’t understand how I feel, how much it hurts. It hurts like hell by the way, if you wanted to know. I don’t think the pain will ever go away, it hasn’t before, when I lost my army comrades, that pain never went away. And now there’s just another name to the list. The name I never wanted to add to that list, yours. I went to visit your grave the other day, I tried, I really did, to keep my composure around the other people at the cemetery. They didn’t understand anyway, nobody does, they probably just saw a man sitting in the wet grass crying in the dark. The people on the street who walk by my window every day probably just see a face behind a curtain, a ghost. Honestly, that’s exactly what I’ve become, a ghost. A lifeless shadow haunting this place, sleeping in your sheets and curling up in your chair. I want this to end so badly. I may never have said it, you may never have felt it, but I loved you. I still do, I still love you and it makes the pain a thousand times worse. If you’re still out there I am sincerely sorry for the amount of pain the information I’m about to tell you will inflict. Please know that you can’t change my decision, neither do I expect you to try, even if you are still out there, and I do hope that you still are. But you must understand that I can’t live like this any longer. I’m sorry.

Yours forever,

- John H. Watson

 

They say, you never know what you have until you lose it. You might know what you had and what it meant to you, but Sherlock doubted that you could ever imagine how much you would miss someone once they were gone. Especially on this rainy January day, clad in one of his fine suits, this was it. He stood in front of the rough, grey tombstone, that had John’s name scribbled on it. This stone belonged to his best friend. A tear ran down the curve of his cheek, across his sharp cheekbone, almost splitting in two. This stone belonged to his only friend. And as he had recently discovered, his soulmate. Another tear rolled a damp path down his cheek as he stood grieving his loss, a loss that he would probably never overcome. That’s when he knew. Sentiment was a chemical defect, that would eventually shatter every heart it had ever touched, and now it had shattered his. How stupid he had been to ever let it into his life. Or maybe he should have protected what he had had when he had had it. He should have crossed the street, should have grabbed the moment. Maybe that was the biggest mistake he had ever made. Now it was all too little and too late. It had been invisible, even to Sherlock, and when it had finally been visible it was unsaveable. Invisible, unsaveable, but also undestroyable. Because it had been mutual.

He touched the stone with his gloved hand, before removing the glove and spreading his fingers over the stone feeling the rough, detailed surface. Another glossy tear formed fighting it's way down his face, eventually landing on the stone where it dried almost immediately.

I may never have said it, you may never have felt it, but I love you.... John

 

The End xx

A/N: Wow, den her historie blev liiidt længere end jeg havde troet...efterlad gerne en kommentar med jeres mening :)

Hav en fantastisk dag!

- YellowAtlas

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