Chapter Text
The bed creaked as John got up. His hands rubbed his face as he let out a sigh. Today was the day, then.
John went about his usual routine, he brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth, he stepped under the slightly cold water spray of the shower, washed away the night’s sleep.
A year ago, his therapist had said a few days prior, he had been back in the pit, the same one where he woke up in, after he was back from the war. John had to agree, he was broken, damaged, had a gaping hole in his chest. This time, a different hole.
The nightmares had returned shortly after The Fall. This time it was not just about the attack that had him discharged, or the horrors that he saw. It was about losing Sherlock, over and over again, in a million different ways. And no matter what John did, he could never save him.
John closed off the water and dried himself with his towel. He wasn’t sure what to feel about where he was going to go this afternoon.
Ella said it got better with time. And she was right. But it’s still there. This sadness. Six months into therapy, Ella helped John come to terms with Sherlock’s death. The man that completed John Watson, who made him whole. And that man was dead. Buried underground in a coffin never to see the light again. And buried right near Sherlock was a part of John. A part of John that Sherlock took with him to that grave. The grave that shouldn't exist, because Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be immortal. Because Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be smarter. Because John should have saved him.
And now, John is left with a gaping hole in his chest. Some days, the hole is so big and dark that John can’t do anything but lay on his bed, and cry the day away. While at night, the nightmares crept into his sleep replaying moments John wishes he never saw. Other days, John can ignore it. Ignore the emptiness. Ignore life without Sherlock.
As the days passed by, John started to slowly accept it all.
Ella had asked him when was the last time he went to baker street. Truth be told it’s been almost a year. He couldn’t bear to be anywhere near it. Not when everything reminded him of Sherlock, his wounds were still fresh. John met up with Mrs Hudson once every few months at a restaurant far from baker street, and they never broached the topic of Sherlock.
Now, a year into therapy, a year and a half after Sherlock's death, Ella proposed he visit the place. To close the chapter of baker street forever. Say his farewells and move on. John wasn’t exactly welcome to the idea. It’s been almost a year without breathing the air of 221B.
He had agreed eventually, Ella’s argument had won over his. And here he was, in a cab, pulling into Baker Street armed with a bouquet of flowers for Mrs Hudson. An onslaught of emotions already gripped his heart. His hands clenched, his back straight. A sudden purge of memories flooded him as well. The day when Sherlock showed John the flat, standing on that pavement as John watched Sherlock speak to Mrs Hudson. His first night in his room as he listened to Sherlock downstairs. Eating at Angelos for the fourth time that week. Doing the dishes while his majesty sulked.
It took him a second to realise the cabbie was waiting for him. John paid him and went to stand in front of the door. The door handle caught his attention. It’s straight. Sherlock would sometimes leave it sideways to annoy Mycroft. Oh, Sherlock. John’s fists clenched again, breathing in and out.
He knocked on the door, flowers in hand.
Mrs Hudson greeted him with warmth, she always had. He was grateful for her. She was one of the main people who had urged him to return to therapy.
“Oh, those are lovely! Come in, dear! Come in! I will make you a cuppa, come on.” Mrs Hudson was happy to see his face, albeit a bit shocked, John could tell. He never visited here. Not after he started therapy. He moved out to a small flat in another neighbourhood, and never looked back on the flat. 221B would always be empty to John, without Sherlock it feels different. Dead. Vacant.
As he entered, he was hit by nostalgia. Except this time, he smiled a bit. He recalled the fit of laughter they had after their chase, interrupted soon with a knock, and John’s cane. It was a miracle, John thought. He always thought he would walk with it forever. And yet enter Sherlock Holmes, and the future becomes uncertain, unpredictable, and exciting.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” John accepted the cup of tea. He held the cup, the old pattern on it, the same cup Mrs Hudson would sometimes hand to Sherlock whenever he and John came down to have dinner with her. Long elegant yet powerful fingers curled around the cup as Mrs Hudson chatted away after dinner.
“John?” Mrs Hudson shook him out of his trance.
“Yes, sorry, you were saying?”
Mrs Hudson looked at him with a reminiscent look. He could see the reflections of memories playing out on her face. The many times Sherlock frequented her flat for all sorts of things. One time, he needed to borrow her old gown. He muttered something about old fabric having the texture required for his experiment as he climbed back the stairs to his make-shift laboratory.
They stayed together in the comfortable silence, sipping tea. As John finished his cup, he cleared his throat. “I wanted to see the flat.”
Mrs Hudson’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, of course, I couldn’t rent it. I occasionally go up there to clean it, otherwise everything is as it was.” She put down her cup and took out the keys from her drawers. “Can I ask why? After so long, John. You haven’t been here for a year.”
John’s hand accepted the key. He looked down at it. “Well, my therapist thought it would be good to see it one final time. Close the chapter and move on, as they say.” He looked away. The key’s weight on his palm, grounding him to reality.
“I understand, dear.”
With that, John went to stand. Thanked his landlady for the tea and left the flat. He was greeted with the stairwell and the wallpaper.
Jon’s legs moved till he stood in front of the first step, his eyes downcast. He took a deep breath in. He could feel the echoes of Sherlock’s pacing even still. He climbed the stairs, seventeen steps, one at a time, spotting the broken bits of wood and wallpaper as he went.
At the top of the stairs, John twirled the key in his palm. The key slid in perfectly. Turned once, twice, and the third time it opened. He pushed the door open, it creaked a bit.
The flat was dim, the curtains drawn, protecting what was like a museum of 221B.
Everything was exactly as John left it.
Billy the Skull was near the knife that stabbed the wood. The chairs faced each other and the table where John did his blogging was somewhat messy with all sorts of things. There was some dust on the surfaces. It was also in the air, giving the place an old feeling to it.
John stood near the entrance to the kitchen as he took it in.
The kitchen looked clean, though. John smiled to himself, if there was one place that was always cluttered with things, it was the kitchen, specifically the table. Sherlock ran all sorts of experiments on it. The fridge almost always housed all sorts of things that definitely do not belong in a fridge.
He breathed in a few deep breaths, remembering the row about the headless cockroaches in the dinner plates.
“No, Sherlock, cockroaches do not belong on the plates we eat on!”
“Oriental cockroaches, John. You may clean them afterwards and I have seen to it that these cockroaches do not carry diseases, fear not.”
“Sherlock! No. Put the bloody cockroaches in the bins right this instant!”
“Why, John, they are not bloody. Merely headless.”
“Headless.”
“Have you lost your cognitive capabilities, John? No need to repeat what I said.”
“You decapitated the cockroaches.”
“Yes. Headless Oriental cockroaches.”
They both burst into laughter.
“John, why are you laughing, I’m conducting a very important scientific experiment.”
“You’re laughing too! Why are you asking me?!”
Their continued laughing lingered in John’s mind. They were mad. The pair of them. John shook his head as he walked around the kitchen table, stopped at the end to look on his right. Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed. He turned right and slowly made his way down the hall.
John’s hand wrapped around the door’s handle and pushed it open.
As soon as he took his first breath in, he had to close his eyes tightly and breathe through his clenched teeth. He took in wheezing breaths through his mouth. He dropped to the ground, holding back the tears as best as he could.
After a few minutes of fighting against himself, he could feel himself starting to relax. He took another breath, this time from his nose. And it happened again. He could smell him. He could smell Sherlock. The deep earth-like smell. It still lingered in Sherlock’s quarters.
John took another breath. And another. And then another. Till he was breathing him all in, till he was surrounded by Sherlock. John still missed him terribly. His bones ache for Sherlock’s voice, for his touch, for the way he looks at John when he thinks John’s looking elsewhere.
After a few more minutes of sitting, John stood back up again, his back leaned against the wall as he took the rest of the room in. The curtains were also drawn, but not fully, so a few streaks of light illuminated the room. It was organised, unlike the rest of the flat. Trust Sherlock to keep his quarters neat but the rest of the flat a mess, a bloody maze, at times.
John walked around the room. More memories returned to him. This time of the many times he had to tend to an injured Sherlock. Other fond memories returned to him. John remembered a time where Sherlock had managed to obtain a concussion during a case, and had refused to go to a hospital. John had spent that night in a chair beside Sherlock’s bed, keeping a watchful eye on him. At some point, John must have dozed a bit, because the next thing he knew Sherlock’s booming voice called out to him.
“John, stop being ridiculous and get in bed. You’ll freeze your nose off if you sleep in that chair for the rest of the night.”
It had been a rather cold week, and John had decided to join in. Body heat sounded lovely at the moment, plus an easy access to measure Sherlock’s pulse every 30 mins. The following day, John awoke to Sherlock resuming his previously abandoned experiment before they started the now successfully solved case. Neither of them mentioned that night again.
John sat on Sherlock’s bed, felt the mattress dip with his weight. He laid down on it, and he could smell more of Sherlock in that pillow. As a medical man, he knew they were phermones. The scent of Sherlock would linger for quite a while on his most used things, such as the pillowcases.
The wardrobe. Sherlock had an extended clothes collection, various things for disguises and many bespoke suits. So John got up from the bed and went to open the wardrobe. Dust flew and John coughed. The wardrobe must not have been opened for ages.
Everything was organised, as John expected. There was a cobweb in the copper corner, near the hanging suits and jackets. John spotted a purple article of clothing at the back. And soon realised it was that purple shirt that Sherlock would often wear that complimented him well. A smile brightened John’s face. He put the shirt back and accidentally dropped Sherlock’s dressing gown. As he went to pick it from the floor, his gaze landed on a box tucked away in one of the corners.
Curiosity had won him over, and after John placed the gown back in place, he retrieved the box and sat with it on the bed. It was a normal cardboard box, nothing special about it. Not quite heavy as well. Upon opening it, John was greeted with the sight of the blue cashmere scarf.
John had then recalled the scene of his nightmares. This time, it didn’t scare John. He closed his eyes as it played out in front of him. As his own cry for Sherlock rang in his ears. And by the end of it, the thing that stuck with him was that he realised Sherlock wasn’t wearing his scarf.
John’s hand grasped the scarf, he lifted it out and held it in his hand. It was very soft, just like he remembered. There was a case where John jumped into the Thames river after hearing a gunshot, and a man had dropped into the river. John’s instinct made him dive into the water, in search of Sherlock. A few seconds in, he heard Sherlock call his name clearly. And after another few seconds, he realised the gunshot had hit the suspect, and not Sherock. He emerged with a gasp for air, and swam his way towards Sherlock. Once Sherlock helped John onto dry land, he took John in his arms in the tightest hug known to man. John had embraced him back till Sherlock let go. Sherlock’s face had that adorable expression, the one he did whenever John saved or tried saving Sherlock.
A towel had materialised out of thin air and Sherlock wrapped it around John. After fifteen minutes of relaying what happened to Lestrade, Sherlock had taken John to find a cab. While walking the distance to the road, Sherlock had wordlessly handed John his scarf to keep him warmer against the biting chill in the air. Together they made their way to baker street.
John’s eyes watered at the memory. He raised the scarf to his nose, breathing it in, breathing Sherlock in. A wrenching sob wrecked through him, at last. Tears came flooding out, the scarf pressed hard against his face.
Dear god, did John miss him. And he realised that he loved Sherlock. He loved him more than he thought, in more ways than possible. A love greater than John’s existence. If he could, John would have chosen to die instead of him.
The crying subsided, leaving John laying on his side, clutching the scarf against his chest and face. John’s legs move to rearrange and accidentally knocked down the cardboard. As it clattered to the ground, a notebook of sorts appeared in front of it. Curiously, John went to grab it. It was all black, a moleskine notebook, John recognized, he had a similar red one.
It was worn, John could tell from the cover. He opened it to the first page. The first page was empty, the paper had a yellow tint to it, John thought it was a mix of age and the paper being slightly yellow in the first place. It was a bit dusty as well, otherwise the paper wasn’t damaged or folded. The paper was bland, not lined with lines or dotted with dots.
Even though the first page proved to be empty, John could see writing seeping in from the next page. His finger turned the page, and after his eyes scanned the page, John’s brows furrowed.
There, on the left side, in the centre of the page, lay a single writing in cursive.
John Watson.
Baffled, and his curiosity piqued, John turned another page.
The moleskine almost slipped between his fingers, his jaw slightly dropped from what he saw. There, covering the entire page, was a very detailed portrait of John’s face. There were the lines on his forehead and around his smiling mouth, the small pimple on the right of his face that had long gone but which had John self conscious about it for months, his hair was spot on as well. The portrait was a side profile, it took John a moment to realise that he must be looking out the window in Angelo’s since there was the distinct shape of the window and the signs of the shops beyond it. A quick sketch of the background, it wasn’t the main thing. No, the main focus was clearly John.
At the far left bottom of the page lay a date. 31st of January, 2010. The night John had shot the cabbie.
John turned the page. Another portrait greeted him. This time, a portrait of John sleeping on the couch in the living room. He was tucked in with a blanket, his face showing exhaustion and tiredness. Deep lines carved his face. He looked in distress. John looked at the bottom, not only was there a date, but there was a sentence. It read, I apologise, John. The date declared it 1st of April.
The Pool. The day John was kidnapped and saw Moriarty. Sherlock never apologised.
This must be Sherlock’s notebook. It has to be. While John was no Sherlock Holmes, he could definitely tell it was Sherlock’s handwriting. And hence, the drawings must be his as well. In the three years that John has known Sherlock, he never once knew that Sherlock was capable of more artistic talents apart from the violin.
But why draw John? Why draw John and never even show him these extraordinary drawings?
The drawings looked stunning. Capturing John down to the smallest details, the proportions were spot on. It was done in pencil, black and white. And yet each drawing told a story that words would fail to tell.
Turning the next page, John was greeted with yet another beautiful portrait. This time John was concentrating really hard on his laptop, presumably writing his blog. Sherlock had made fun of how John would focus with his brows furrowed, his utmost concentration at his keyboard. John chuckled to himself, his hand returning back to the scarf for the briefest of moments. The date read, 28th of May.
The next page featured John’s face which John was quite certainly sure was when he first saw Irene’s naked form during that first encounter with her. This one was undated. John wondered why.
The next drawing was that of John smiling directly at, John guessed, Sherlock. His smile radiant and his eyes glowing with light.
My conductor of light. 12th of March, 2011.
John’s hand traced the drawing, his fingers trailing on the lone sentence at the bottom. His eyes were back to tearing up, his heart ached.
John wasn’t sure what to make of what he found. What was the point of this, for Sherlock? Every drawing seems to be dedicated to John, and no one else. With the first one being their first dinner, their first case. That was when it started.
John flipped several pages, the dates intervals started to be smaller and smaller. Each one started to be accompanied with a seemingly sentimental sentence. I wish I was the one who got stabbed, accompanied by a drawing of a bleeding john, with the perspective being from the eyes of Sherlock, who was holding John’s head in the crook of his elbow, his other hand pressing around the stab wound. John’s face looked pained, and pale, even visible in the black and white drawing. John’s heart clenched as he remembered how Sherlock had never left his side the following week.
I like your smile.
I love your commanding voice.
I am touched by your concern. This showed a drawing from the perspective of Sherlock looking up, to a concerned John, he had a doctorly look upon him. This must be when Sherlock had contracted pneumonia.
I like it when you tell me I am brilliant. Please keep saying it.
Never leave my side, John. This one was written beneath a picture of John sitting in a restaurant with one of his dates. It looked as if Sherlock was sitting at a far table by himself. John finds himself wondering if Sherlock had sketched him live, unbeknownst to John who was probably laughing at some silly Joke his date had said.
Every page showed a different portrait of John. Each one had a sentence besides its date
John was confused, but touched. When had Sherlock drawn John? Why did he never show them to John? Answers John would never find out.
There was a page missing, John could see the rips of the paper it left behind. A drawing has been taken. Who took it? Sherlock? What did he do with it? Did he keep it? Or did he throw it away? John will never find out.
The date, John noticed, started getting closer to The Fall. The drawings had started growing more random. John eating a jam sandwich, John staring out the window, John reading the newspaper, John watching crap telly, John sleeping in sherlock’s bed after he fractured his leg and he was advised to not use the stairs, John crouched down in front of a corpse.
John turned a page, and evidently, it held the last drawing. The scene was drawn as if it was photographed, the camera standing directly above Sherlock’s bed.
In the scene, Sherlock was laying on his left side, and John’s back was pressed against his chest. Sherlock’s right hand was interlocked over John’s chest. Sherlock’s face was pressed to the nap of John’s chest, other hand beneath the pillow. The drawing was crisp. It was the most detailed and well drawn picture out of them all. And there, on the far bottom was the sentence and date.
I love you. 16th of June.
The day John’s life turned upside down.
John looked at the magnificent portrait through blurry eyes, at the message near the date.
I love you too, you sod. Silent tears streamed down John's face as he once again crumbled.
Too late, John’s mind unhelpfully supplied, too late to tell him that. And now there was never going to be an opportunity for John to tell him how he felt. No opportunity to hear if Sherlock felt the same way. The notebook that was clutched to his chest said that Sherlock had indeed loved him back.
It was hours later that John left Baker Street. However, he didn’t leave empty handed. He had Sherlock’s scarf wrapped around his neck, the notebook safe in his inner coat pocket. He gave Mrs Hudson his farewell, saw how she smiled at the scarf, and hugged her.
He got into a cab and gave directions to the place he stopped visiting, to give it one last final visit.
What felt like a minute later, John arrived. Paid the cabbie, stepped out, the cold wind greeted him. The sun was coming down at this time of the day. His legs carried him over to the grave.
There, lay the headstone with Sherlock’s name written on it. John stood rigid before it. A soldier at battle with his own feelings once again.
It was a few minutes before he loosened, he pulled the scarf from his neck, held it in his hands. The grave lay undisturbed. Peaceful under the last rays of the sun.
John dropped to his knees. The scarf was warm and soft in his palms. He looked at the headstone.
“You,” John began, “You told me once that you weren’t a hero…there were times I didn't think you were human but let me tell you this,” John’s eyes were on the grave, speaking to the man he loved most.
“You were the best man, the most human…human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.” John’s hand reached over to the headstone, his voice was thick with emotion. He took several deep breaths before he could continue.
“I was….so alone,” John’s eyes squeezed shut. “And I owe you so much.”
His hand fell, his eyes opened and he moved forward. He sat near the headstone, his left side leaning on the headstone.
“I went to baker street today. I haven’t been there since a while. I found your notebook,” John let out a small laugh, “Bloody brilliant you are, Sherlock. I never knew you drew. You never told me…..They’re beautiful. Truly, beautiful, extraordinary….quite extraordinary.”
The sun painted the sky with splashes of colour.
“I wish you told me about them. I wish I told you about how I felt. I should have.” John traced sherlocks' name on the headstone. “I don’t know when….No. I do know when. It was at Angelo’s. And by the end of the night it grew into something bigger, something I didn’t put words to. Or thought into, either.”
“But I do. Love you, that is. I love you, Sherlock. Always had, always have, always will.” John’s voice choked on his words as he spoke to Sherlock. He took a deep breath in and soldiered on.
“Please, there's just one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me.”
“Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do tha…..just for me, just stop this. Give me one last chance to tell you that I love you. One more moment with you. One last night with you. Like the final portrait you drew of us. Please, Sherlock. I love you.”
John stood, whipped at his face, tied the scarf back around his neck. Checked that the cherished notebook is in his coat, secured. And for the last time before leaving, John spoke.
“I love you.”
It was a cold dark January night. John’s face scrunched up, his breathing picked up, his hands had a handful of sheets. His legs start moving, his nightmare reaching its climax.
“Get down!” John awoke with a shout, his breathing was rapid, his hands rubbed his face, trying to calm down from his nightmare.
It was another version of his time with the army, the day he got shot at. It’s been a few months since he last had a nightmare this intense and vivid. John let out a sigh. He went to get up, walked to his cupboard, opened the bottom drawer and felt for what he was searching for. His finger brushed soft wool. John grabbed it and collapsed back to his bed.
He pressed the scarf to his face, breathing it in. Breathing the faint smell of Sherlock.
The scarf became his refuge on bad days. Just the sight of it brought John some peace of mind. He always sought it out when he woke up from a nightmare. The scarf was John’s company during his dark days.
Now, John lifted the scarf. He looked into the blueness of the scarf, the soft wool pressed gentle in his hands. John took his shirt off, tossed it onto his chair. He took the scarf and let it rest against his chest, against his skin. The softness tickled him if it dragged it a bit. He imagined Sherlock’s head resting on his chest. He could almost feel him there.
Sleep took John away from the realm of reality into a dreamless sleep, the scarf protecting him from everything evil.