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He fell. John was helpless to stop him. John couldn't save him. He could only watch in horror as Sherlock Holmes committed suicide to save the lives of his only three friends. John stood there and watched, every moment going past like a slow motion film. He braced himself for the end, the resounding, dull splat that Sherlock made when he hit the cold, wet pavement. The second before that happened, John woke up, gasping and sweating profusely, Sherlock’s name on his lips.
He sighed, looking around him and realising that he was in his bedroom, a pregnant Mary sleeping next to him. He was safe, Sherlock was back at 221B, and this was just a nightmare. He sighed, knowing that he'd never be able to get back to sleep now. Getting up and putting on his dressing gown, he went to make himself some tea. He groaned upon seeing that it was barely four in the morning.
He had had these nightmares more and more frequently lately, especially since they put away Moriarty (hopefully for the last time). He didn’t know why. He never told Mary about them. He never told anyone about them. He just suffered through watching Sherlock “die” every single night, and it was slowly killing him inside.
He knew, intellectually, that Sherlock was fine, but there had been one too many close calls regarding Sherlock’s life, and John was starting to despair about losing him again. This time, Moriarty had nearly killed him for real, and it was only John’s bullet that stopped Sherlock from having a new mouth about three inches below the chin.
John looked over at his phone. His homescreen was of Mary on their wedding day, but his lockscreen was a picture he had sneakily taken of Sherlock one day, when he had made a passing comment about Mycroft and Sherlock had given a long, genuine laugh. John had snuck in a quick photo, always wanting to remember Sherlock as he was right then, the happy man he knew his best friend could be.
John’s actions, John’s subconscious, had always been trying to tell him something, even before Reichenbach. Yes, it had been trying to tell him something profound, but his brain shut it down whenever it reared its head. Now, during these early morning wakeup calls, he didn’t have the heart to deny himself his emotions as he did when he was fully awake and aware.
He let his fingertip run along Sherlock’s face in the photo, careful not to shake the lockscreen and make the photo disappear.
When the screen went dark, his own reflection mocked him. You could have had it: true happiness with a man who loves you even more than you love him. You could be snuggled against him right now, blissfully asleep. No more nightmares, because he always chased them away for you. But no. Your pride, your stubbornness, and your fear kept you away from him and now--
The pinging of a text message made his taunting reflection disappear and made him jump. The sudden noise in the quiet flat had startled him. He looked at it and grinned, shaking his head in amusement.
Of course. Who else would it be at arse-o’clock in the morning?
He opened the text.
Come home at once. Please. -SH
That gave him pause. Sherlock never would have sent that. If it was a case, he’d have said so. It was clearly him by the way it had been typed, but something akin to apprehension settled itself in John’s stomach.
Are you okay, Sherlock?
Just hurry, John. -SH
Not bothering with changing out of his pyjama pants and t-shirt, John simply slipped on his loafers and a jacket and got into his car. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He hoped his stomach was mistaken, that he was overreacting because of the dreams.
“Come home.” How simply Sherlock wrote that, and he was right. 221b Baker Street was John’s home, more than anywhere else had ever been, even his cosy flat with Mary. Nowhere felt like home unless that place contained William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Nowhere.
John floored it, concerned and now eager to be with Sherlock. He missed him, he missed his attitude, his deductions, he missed listening to him play his violin at one in the morning, he missed taking their tea together, and just sitting in front of the telly, doing nothing together.
He was decided, without actually deciding anything, that he was going to tell Sherlock how he felt tonight, and damn the consequences!
He felt like it had taken forever to get home. He parked haphazardly, and he was sure to get written up for it, but he didn’t care. He still had a key to their flat: Sherlock had insisted he keep one just in case.
Rushing up the stairs, he opened the door to the flat and called Sherlock’s name. It was dark and cold. Hadn’t he bothered to put on the heat?
“Bedroom,” came the strained response.
John was a doctor. He could tell the voice of a sick person. Sherlock was not well. Not at all. Dropping his keys in his haste, John ran to Sherlock’s room, where he found his best friend, his love, his soul mate, lying down, propped up on pillows soiled with sweat. Sherlock’s beautiful eyes were sunken into his face, dark circles rimming them like dual black eyes. He was wearing a ratty tee and pyjama pants, and John saw something that made his heart stop momentarily: track marks inside Sherlock’s left arm. John felt sick.
“Sherlock!” he cried, feeling the tears already pooling in his eyes. He practically threw himself down on his knees at Sherlock’s bedside, wrapping one arm around his thin waist. “Oh, Sherlock, please tell me you didn’t!”
“I’m sorry, John,” he said, and John saw that he was crying as well. That he had been crying. “I didn’t take into account that my body was unused to this, and I can’t take as much as I used to.”
“What are you talking about?” John asked.
Sherlock gestured to the needle lying discarded on his duvet. “I accidentally took too much.”
John scrambled for his phone. “We’ve got to call A&E! Sherlock, you need a doctor!”
Sherlock nodded. “You’re right. I needed my doctor. So I called you.” He put a trembling hand on John’s arm. “Don’t bother. We both know it won’t take longer than the seven minutes it takes A&E to respond.”
John was about to ask what would take long, but he didn’t need to. John was not stupid. He was a doctor. He knew what the sick sounded and looked like. He also knew what the dying looked and sounded like.
“Oh, Sherlock, why? Why did you do it?” John asked, gasping, gripping Sherlock’s cold and clammy hand in his. He put his other hand in Sherlock’s dirty curls.
More tears spilled from Sherlock’s eyes. “Because I didn’t like being alone anymore. This made me forget that I was alone. I--I started hallucinating. It was so nice. It was like you were right here again, but I could tell you all the things I kept inside for so many years. But then you disappeared even from my delusions. And the shakes started. My heart is erratic. I already had one minor cardiac arrest before I text you.”
John was crying openly now, wracking sobs that shook him. Sherlock! How could he? How could he have ever left him?
“Don’t think it’s your fault, John. I made the choice to take these. I just...I missed you too much and didn’t know what to do.”
“You could have called me!” John cried. “You could have told me! How was I supposed to know? I’m not like you, Sherlock. I can’t detect your very thoughts!”
“I just wanted you to be happy, John. I just...I didn’t realise how badly it would hurt me to make you happy.”
“Damnit!” John punched the mattress. “Sherlock, I am not happy! Not when we’re apart, I can’t ever be happy. I need you, Sherlock! Please, don’t leave me.”
It was a stupid statement. Sherlock was already too far gone. There was no way to help him now.
“John. My John. My blogger. My world,” Sherlock breathed, gently squeezing John’s hand. “I only ever survived this long because of you. I owe you so much. Things I could never give you.”
“You gave me everything. You gave me a reason to live,” John said, his voice barely audible. “I love you, Sherlock. I have always loved you.”
“I know. And I have always loved you, even when I tried to convince myself that I did not.” Sherlock smirked. Only he could smile in the face of Death! “We are much more alike than we thought.”
Two stubborn idiots, John thought. “Sherlock, what can I do?” he asked.
“Stay with me. Talk to me. Just be here, please. There isn’t much time left, love.”
John buried his face in Sherlock’s chest, and he felt Sherlock dip his head to rest on him as well. This could not be happening. It couldn’t! “Please don’t go.”
“John…”
John looked up at him. “I wish I had known, Sherlock. I wish I could have prevented this. I am so sorry. You are all I ever wanted, all I ever needed. You are my everything, Sherlock Holmes. As long as I was alive, you were never alone.
“Now it’s too late. Why did I have to be so stubborn? I wish someone would have told me a year ago, three years ago, anything, that you felt this way. Even yesterday! I never thought I’d lose you, Sherlock.”
“You’ve not lost me just yet. ...John, kiss me, please?” He was so pleading. So childlike. So beautiful, even at the end of mortality. John leant up and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock’s for the first and last time. He felt Sherlock kiss back, just the lightest of pressure, as tears fell down both their cheeks.
John pulled away, and Sherlock was smiling.
“Thank you, John.”
John was at a loss for words. He wished he’d wake up in that cold bed right about then. He wished this could all be just another nightmare.
“Don’t mourn me. I had the pleasure of knowing and loving you. It was far more than a man like me ever had a right to expect or deserve out of this life,” Sherlock said.
“You deserved so much more out of this life. You were my beacon of light. I don’t know how I can face the darkness ahead without you there to light my way.” It was true. John had no idea how he could continue on with his life after this night.
“I had you. It was more than enough, John. Thank you for being here, for being my friend, and for teaching me that caring is not a disadvantage. Promise...promise me you’ll keep me in your heart long after I’m gone. Don’t ever forget me.”
John buried his face in Sherlock’s chest again, his sobs once more wracking his entire body. “Oh, Sherlock! I’ll never let anyone forget you. Never. I’ll never let you fade away. I promise.”
Sherlock leaned back, eyes closed. He looked satisfied. Peaceful. “Goodbye John. I love you.”
John felt rather than heard his death rattle. Felt that last breath raggedly taken by lungs that were not getting enough blood because his heart had been damaged by too much cocaine. He felt the beautiful, bright soul of Sherlock Holmes leave its Earthly confines, becoming one of the angels that he repeatedly denied that he was.
John stayed where he was, hugging Sherlock’s body and crying, repeating his apology and his love declarations over and over, knowing that, had he said those things sooner, he would not be facing a life without the man that he loved.
He held Sherlock as his body cooled, and that was where Mrs. Hudson found him a couple of hours later, wrapped around his soul mate, whispering, “I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back; please don’t leave me again. Please, Sherlock, for me.”