But I’ll be close behind
I’ll follow you into the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NO’s on their vacancy signs
If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark
Sherlock’s dead. He’s dead and gone and the blood stains the pavement outside Bart’s and John is alone. He’s alone but the flat holds the ghost of Sherlock, it hovers and looms over everything he does. John moves out, back into the lonely flat, cold, and clean, and empty, and silent. No odd smells coming from the kitchen, no slowly bubbling chemicals on the mantelpiece, no buffalo skull mounted on the wall. No Sherlock.
John tells himself it will be easy. Just put the barrel into his mouth, and shoot. It’ll be fast, if the angle is just right. It’ll be right, it’ll be good, it’ll be final. It’ll bring Sherlock back. Or him to Sherlock, he’ll take either one. Easy, fast, simple, good.
In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me
“Son fear is the heart of love”
So I never went back
If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NO’s on their vacancy signs
If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark
He bumps into Donovan one day, when he’s buying milk. That bitch. He nods politely, calmly, slowly, and holds it inside. No need to do something he’ll regret. But she talks and she goes on and on about him, tactless, and mean, and malicious, and John feels like shooting her as well as himself. But he smiles, tight-lipped and cold, the smile of supressed anger, hidden fear, unknown melancholia. He turns away and bids her goodbye, polite, and calm, and quiet, and final.
You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It’s nothing to cry about
‘cause we’ll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms
If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the No’s on their vacancy signs
If there’s no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark
He dreams of Afghanistan, but it’s different. He dreams of bombs and gunshots and fire, and blood; watching tall, pale figures throw themselves off impossibly high sand dunes onto hard concrete-like sand. He dreams of Dartmoor and Baskerville, and black hounds, and naked women with yellow spray paint across their faces with bombs strapped on them. He dreams of poisonous little pills that trick you, and tall ugly monsters that strangle you with words; their Irish accents thick.
And Sherlock, always Sherlock, dying, falling and bones cracking, and blood. Blood, blood, so much blood.
John always follows soon after.
Then I'll follow you into the dark
So he walks up to the old flat, with skulls, and dead things, and thumbs in the fridge, and Sherlock in the air. He sits in his old chair and closes his eyes and inhales, Sherlock and leather, and ammonia, and hexene from an experiment long gone wrong.
He puts the gun in his mouth, turns the safety off. Goodbye. Goodbye. I won’t be seeing you later.
Then I’ll follow you into the dark
“John”.