Chapter Text
- Silence
On the day John planned to propose he visited Baker street.
Today he was going to move on.
Today would be the start of a future.
The sharp music he missed was from the past; there was no retrieving it now.
He rang the doorbell.
When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, John noticed she seemed tired compared to the last time he saw her.
He probably looked tired too.
She welcomed him in and made him some tea.
She expressed her anger to John.
In all the time since he moved out, he never called.
John wished he could explain how difficult it was for him to look at his phone, how impossible it was to pick it up. The heavy silence choked out any words he had to say.
Instead, he only apologized.
Mrs. Hudson gave John a tour of his old apartment.
She hadn't moved anything. Dust clung to him as he moved through the space.
When John announced his plan to propose, Mrs. Hudson laughed.
Her laughter sang through the abandoned apartment.
John felt warm.
Maybe Mary and Mrs. Hudson would get along, he'd have to introduce them.
Before leaving, John promised to visit soon.
If the evening went well he'd ensure she received an invite to the wedding.
John arrived at the restaurant early. He was incredibly nervous, which was uncharacteristic for time spent with Mary. She was his calm.
He imagined for a moment how uneasy he would feel if it was Sherlock that he was proposing to. Sherlock had always been against settling down, and they had never spoken of their relationship. Their closeness was just the way they were; it didn't require words, as much as John wished he could say them now.
John had his suicide note in his pocket. He'd decided that after tonight he'd burn it, drop it in a river, something. That chapter of his life was over.
He had Mary, and he wasn't ever going to be alone again.
Dinner was lovely.
Mary was radiant.
John had a bit of something prepared to say as he asked for Mary's hand. He knew she could tell what he was about to ask, and she was smiling.
As John stumbled through his small speech, a waiter interrupted, asking about wine or something (John couldn't tell, he was a bit nervous).
But then he heard the waiter say something about an old friend, in a familiar accent.
Too familiar.
- Mendelssohn: String Quartet No.6 in F minor, Op. 80, MWV R37:II. Allegro assai
John looked up and saw him. Him.
Sherlock.
He was there.
Violin music slammed into his ears- a deafening chord. It hummed through his chest and throat. He was a deer and wanted so desperately to run to the fire. To embrace him and burn. He was burning up.
The melancholy, faint grief that had manifested in his lungs the past two years now crashed in an overwhelming sadness. The violin music got faster and faster. John forgot how to breathe.
Slowly he stood; even slower he turned his eyes away from Sherlock to Mary, as if the detective might disappear any second.
"I, Mary, please..uh" his voice caught, every fiber in him seemed to be shaking. He clenched his hand in and out of a fist.
So. Loud.
Mary knew who Sherlock was, knew how much he meant to John, knew that what he must be feeling was unexplainable.
She stood and smiled.
"I'll get the check, if you need me at all, just call." She put her hand on his upper arm. "I'll be at home, don't worry about me."
Her eyes were so soft.
"I- ok." He turned to Sherlock, who stood expectantly, then back to Mary.
"Thank you." He quickly brushed a tear from his face.
Her smile created creases at the corners of her eyes.
John faced Sherlock, his chest ached as if his ribs were going to crush his heart.
He was so mad.
He was overwhelmed.
His ears rang.
John walked past his old friend, knowing he would follow.
John stood against the backside wall of the building. Rain lightly tapped the ground. A short overhang reached out over the back door, keeping him dry.
The door shut softly, and Sherlock assumed his place next to John.
John said nothing.
"You're... upset." Sherlock sounded confused. He was a bloody detective, what didn't he understand!?
"Mmhm." John crossed his arms and stared at his shoes, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
"If it helps, originally I wanted to jump out of a cake." John could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. He was trying to make him smile.
John didn't know what he could say.
Neither did his tall friend.
They stood together in silence. John tried to allow the rain to absorb the sound of violin to no avail.
Finally he spoke, maybe the rain would absorb the sound of his voice instead.
"Of course I'm upset." He paused to allow his thoughts to collect into a form that could be expressed in words.
"Everything hurts, Sherlock." John clenched his jaw. "You're gone!" He choked as he yelled.
After a moment he continued quietly. "You..died."
John inhaled and placed his hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He refused to break.
But oh, the wail of a violin could be so loud.
Even as Sherlock hesitated to speak, there was so much noise.
"I want so badly to punch you." He looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "I'm...so angry."
Sherlock leaned against the wall.
"Why not punch me? Go for it." His smile was hesitant, but smug.
John couldn't respond, he quickly looked back at the ground away from Sherlock's gaze. His throat tightened as his mind raced with what he would say if he were able.
I can't punch you because I'm afraid you'll disappear again.
Because when I close my eyes to sleep I see you on the ground. Bloody. Silent.
Because I haven't slept well in two years.
You've been gone for two years.
God I was so alone.
Ignoring every muscle in his body, uncertain, John looked up at his friend. His best friend. His roommate. His partner in investigation(and crime). His favorite song.
John hugged Sherlock, embracing him with all his strength, terrified that he would vanish.
He longed to never let go.
He pressed his face into Sherlock's chest and cried.
He sobbed just as he did two years ago.
Only this time he had Sherlock,
And Sherlock was warm.
He was alive.
Violin music soared.
Slowly Sherlock placed his arms around John. He paused before resting one hand on the back of John's head.
He bent his head down next to John's ear.
John didn't move, if it was possible for him to pull Sherlock closer he would.
He wished sharp music would absorb him, the stringed tune filling his chest and skull. His damp face clung to Sherlock's jacket. So loud, so warm.
Car horns, lights, rain: the city was living again.
There was a rumble in the sky, and the light drops of rain quickly turned to a wave. The overhang was no longer effective, and both men were pelted with cold water.
"We should go inside, I'd rather not have us catching a cold." Sherlock's voice hummed against John's head.
"Too many people in there." John murmured into Sherlock's chest.
"Let's catch a cab." Sherlock unwrapped his arms from John and began to hastily leave the back alley. John hurried to walk with him, he refused to lose him again.
Sherlock directed the cabbie to Baker street, and the two men rushed upstairs to escape the rain.
The apartment was exactly as it had been two years prior, perhaps with a bit more dust.
John leaned on the doorway, bewildered, as Sherlock entered the main room and planted himself in his chair as if no time had passed.
"Are you real?" John thought aloud, startling Sherlock, who said nothing in reply. Instead, he opened his arms, welcoming John towards him.
It wasn't until John collapsed into Sherlock's arms that he responded.
"I'm alive. I'm here."
"Why?" was all John could bring himself to say. His thoughts screamed more questions.
Why did you have to leave me? Why didn't you return sooner? How could you do that to me?
Sherlock brought his hand up to John's hair, cradling his head.
"I had to protect you." Sherlock spoke plainly, as if it meant nothing.
"Protect me?" John stood in an instant, shoving Sherlock's arms away. "Protect me!?" He repeated, "you, you destroyed me! What was I supposed to do without you?"
He was beginning to shout.
"You died. In front of me!" John was pacing now. "For two years I have been all alone. Without you I had nobody. Nobody!"
He paused, a sob escaping his lips before continuing. Sherlock said nothing, instead watching him carefully.
"Protect me?" John scoffed as he said it again. "Do you realize I" John choked, "I," he brought his shaking hand to his mouth, shutting his eyes. He continued pacing, his breathing uneven.
Finally John stopped, looking down directly into Sherlock's eyes. He reached into his pocket, found the note, and shoved it at Sherlock.
He didn't look away as Sherlock slowly unfolded it, reading the words John had written on a late night about two years prior.
John watched Sherlock's face fall.
He refolded the paper and looked up, meeting John's eyes. His voice was quiet, bewildered.
"I didn't realize you'd-"
"You didn't realize!? What kind of detective are you!?" John was yelling again. "You were all I had, and you expected me to keep living without you? Do you have any idea how empty every single thing has been without you?"
John resumed pacing, but Sherlock didn't move, he kept his gaze fixed on John, his eyes red.
"And then you decide to come prancing back into my life when I'm finally okay. I was finally- " John brought his arms up, grasping the sides of his head. "This is too much, it's too loud." He was struggling to breathe. "You can't just, you, I-"
John wrapped his arms around himself and stopped walking to once again stare down at Sherlock, pausing between each sentence. "You killed yourself, and it killed me. Nothing is okay. I am not okay. You ruined everything, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, your friends, and you don't even have the audacity to apologize!?"
John slowly slid to the floor, finally allowing sobs to stop his shouting.
Sherlock had his arms around John before he could reach the ground.
"John, John" Sherlock held his head in his chest, speaking softly. "That was the hardest thing I had ever done."Finally a tear fell down Sherlock's cheek. "After I fell I could," he paused to breathe, "I could hear you." He pulled John closer. "It was so hard to stay away. I feared that my death would affect you this much."
Sherlock leaned his head down to John's and whispered. "I've never been good with... feelings John, but I do know that I am so..so sorry."
John clung to Sherlock, crying harder.
He knew he had to forgive him, he was angry, but he loved Sherlock.
He loved him, and it broke every fiber of his being.
Sherlock held him until John's breathing calmed.
- Jay Ungar- Ashokan Farewell
Slowly, Sherlock shifted to face John, holding the other man's face in his hands.
He studied John's face, his eyes, his lips.
"Sherlock?" John was quiet, his voice tired. His eyes searched Sherlock's.
Sherlock looked frozen, terrified. He was analyzing John, who wiped his damp face with the back of his hand and blinked.
"Sherlock?" he repeated softly, "what-"
"I love you too." Sherlock whispered quickly, immediately looking away from John as he spoke.
The closeness of the room hummed, music radiated from Sherlock's chest. John felt the rage of a forest fire sting behind his eyes, threatening to spill. To burn.
He wanted to be burned.
John mirrored Sherlock, placed his hands onto the sides of Sherlock's face, and pulled him closer.
He glanced away as he spoke.
"I, how did you.. can you read my mind?" He smiled faintly before looking back into Sherlock's eyes. His eyes smiled, but they were so sad.
"I've always known. You never said it, but know.. I," Sherlock hesitated, nervous, "love you."
He looked away for a moment before he shakily whispered something John barely understood.
"Please say it."
A short laugh escaped John's throat, his whole soul was smiling as a tear slipped down his face.
He'd been so close to Sherlock, he did love him. He always had.
Maybe Mary would forgive him.
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
He pulled Sherlock's face to his, and kissed him.
Sherlock was violin music, shrill and manic. A war. Dancing flame.
He was a forest fire and John was a deer that couldn't bring itself to flee.
As his ears bled he wished the music would get louder.
He was alive.