Chapter Text
Something was wrong; Sherlock felt it in his veins; as fear polluted his heart. He was getting his Knighthood and his boyfriend wasn't there. Carol was worried she claimed that "John wouldn't miss this for the world” and Sherlock really didn't want her deduction to be correct.
He had been dating John for over 2 months now; and John had been the most supportive boyfriend that Sherlock had ever had. They were always there for each other. No matter what.
John had been so proud of his boyfriend.
“Sherl a Knighthood is massive mate…I'm so incredibly proud of you!”
John had said. John should have been there. Carol was right. He wouldn't miss it for the world; so what happened? Had John somehow been hurt? The thought alone made the detective want to throw up. He loved his podcaster. His John; he couldn't lose him. NO. He wouldn't.
He shook his head trying to clear his self sabotaging mind. John was FINE; he must have been; he's probably just lost; Sherlock would find him and it would all be ok.
“Something must have happened; a mother knows” Carol's voice was as weak as a whisper; and it broke Sherlock's heart.
“John's ok; knowing him he's just distracted” Sherlock's voice was stern leaving little room for argument. “I'll go get him.”
“But Sherlock-”
“I'll GO GET HIM; HE'S FINE” Sherlock didn’t mean to snap; but his worry was steadily increasing by the second; and he needed to find his boyfriend.
WHO WAS FINE.
HE HAD TO BE.
Sherlock turned on his heel and left; alone; leaving no more room for argument.
He would find John.
-; ·˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ♡
John Watson wasn't at the knighthood of Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he was lying against a cold stone tunnel. A tunnel hidden in a house. His hand was stained with a dark, thick liquid. His own blood.
The podcaster had gotten hurt. He had seen his own blood hundreds of times before. This time… it was different. It was worse than getting blown up by that bloody bomb in Ukraine. Because he was away from someone he loved so fiercely on one of the most important days of their life.
He was missing the Knighthood of his boyfriend. That was one of the highest honors anyone could receive. Yet here he was, missing the event, because he had cared too much for a near stranger.
Sherlock understood. Bloody hell, he had encouraged him to go. It was supposed to be a quick trip. Until he couldn't find the man. Until he looked a little too deeply. Until he had encountered Sebastian Moran. Until Moran had…
Well, that was causing him to stay rooted to the ground. A bullet, lodged somewhere close to his spine. The bleeding had remained internal, his breaths somewhat steady. Now, the blood was staining his freshly ironed dress shirt and his calloused hands. His right hand was barely gripping onto his ever recording microphone. He let out a ragged breath, one that caused his body to shift. The bullet dug into his raw flesh.
“Shit…” The podcaster cursed under his breath. That was the last thing he wanted to happen while he was bleeding, alone.
He was bleeding externally now, as much as he didn't want to accept that. He was bleeding out in a damp, dark, hidden tunnel. He would likely die here.
He took in another breath. As he exhaled, he choked out a quiet, almost inhuman sob. Warm tears grazed his face, salty and raw. He would die a slow, painful death. Away from any warmth or light. While the people closest to him were in Buckingham Palace. God, he wished he was there.
As John stared at the ceiling, he thought of them. His family. If he was going to die… he had to tell them.
He turned his head towards the microphone. Still recording. He first thought of his parents. His mom, Carrol. She had raised him alone after his dad had died. “Mum… I'm so sorry…” He whispered. “You…you did a good job. Raising me, I mean.” His voice cracked from the emotion. He paused to recollect himself.
His father. A man he had looked up to so much. Gone too soon. Just like his son would be… if he didn't get help soon. As a kid, John had always believed that he was in heaven. Now that he was older… well, he didn't really believe in heaven the same way. But if it existed, he wanted his dad to be there. “I did… a decent job. I… don't think there's anything I regret. Well… Buckingham Palace… I regret I’m here… instead of there.”
Every breath felt like a heavy effort now. A load that he would soon collapse under. The podcast.They… no, they couldn't be left in silence. Someone had to tell them… She could handle this. “Mariana… If you get this… you'll know what to do. They… they can't be left…” He trailed off. Fuck, now speaking was difficult.
Then, his thoughts shifted again. The cold stone didn't feel as cold anymore. The silence wasn't suffocating him. The pain was duller now. His consciousness was so close to slipping. He could almost hear them now, almost feel them.
Watson was no longer in that cold tunnel below the garrideb. He was home. He was in 221B Baker Street.
The comfort of the couch and telly. A warm cup of tea in his hands. Mariana’s voice on the phone as a new client called. Archie’s warm weight on his lap. His fingers shifted to pet him as a weak smile came onto his face.“Archie… you're… a good boy.” He whispered.
Then, him. Sherlock Holmes. His boyfriend, his best friend, his light. That man whom he would gladly take a bullet for ten times over. He had flipped his life upside down in the best way. The detective had transformed the way he saw the world. He was sitting on a chair across from him. Sherlock's hands were clasped. His eyes stared into oblivion. A case, no doubt. He was so close, yet so far away. Too far away for him to move.
“S….Sherlock?”
The detective unclasped his hands. He turned his head. “Yes, my dear Watson?”
The podcaster gave him a weak smile. He felt so tired, so very tired. He could just take a nap right here. Before he did, he had to say something.
“I love you.”
John Watson’s eyes fluttered shut. He drifted into unconsciousness. The illusion of 221B faded. He wasn't home. He was so very far from it. All he wanted to do was go back home
He would never go back home.
-; ·˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ♡
It didn't take long for Sherlock to pinpoint John's exact location. Sherlock squinted his eyes desperately trying to get used to the change in lighting.
“John…John can you hear me? Watson; are you her-?.”
All of the colour drained from the detective’s face; as his eyes finally landed on a figure sitting on the cold, hard ground; his back pressed against the wall. He was sitting in a pool of his own blood; his hair a mess and his cheeks stained in tears.
Sherlock was silent as he approached; suddenly losing all of his deductive reasoning as he approached the unfamiliar figure; with messy blonde hair; a mic; and a jaw T-shirt.
It wasn’t John.
It couldn't have been John. The man before him wasn’t conscious and was hardly breathing. It wasn't his boyfriend. His boyfriend was safe. His boyfriend wasn't bleeding.
Sherlock crouched down in front of the man; his mind sort circulating. It wasn't John. He looked down at the pool of blood that was now; climbing up his trousers. There was too much blood. The man wouldn't survive. The man was bleeding out. It wasn't John; John wasn't bleeding.
John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine. John was fine.
The detective’s mind screamed at him, desperately trying to get him to think; but his heart couldn't take it.
It wasn’t John. It wasn't John. It wasn't John. It wasn't John. It wasn't John. It wasn't-
Something finally broke within the depths of his mind; logic commanded his attention and he has never been one to shine away from rational thought.
DEDUCE SHERLOCK DAMN IT DEDUCE
YOU KNOW THIS MAN.
deduction
Not John.
Man bleeding out in tunnel
An obvious bullet wound.
Conclusion
Stop the bleeding.
Sherlock placed his hands over John's bullet wound; his mind now in over drive.
Deduction
Didn't help.
The man has clearly lost too much blood already; I'd estimate that he has at least an hour, max.
Based on the amount of blood and the condition of his wound I'd estimate that he has been waiting alone for almost 2 hours.
Conclusion
Mot John.
A strange man dying in a tunnel. He's not John.
DEDUCTION
THINK!
John has been missing for almost 2 hours…
John was last wearing a jaws shirt….he stated that he'd change into his tuxedo when the event had begun.
But John never made it.
Blonde hair.
Mic at his side ... .a mic clearly not made for its use.
Conclusion
It's not John.
As if on instinct Sherlock reached; out for John's face; gently cradling it in his hands. He gulped as his fingers worked their way over to Johns; eye's as he gently pried them open.
Deduction
You know those eyes.
Blue eyes.
Blue kind eyes.
Blue kind eyes of the man that you love
Conclusion
It's John…
“John” Sherlock choked out his mind finally breaking as he leaned over his podcaster and sobbed.
“John…John…I'm so sorry ... .I’m…im….so…so…sorry.” Sherlock continued to sob; which earned no reply.
“John….John…I….need….you…John…please…wake …up…please. “ Sherlock continued to cry and his pleas were finally answered as John's eyes fluttered open; and landed lovingly on his boyfriend.
John let out a weak cough. Ruby red blood ran down his mouth. His breaths were wheezes by now. He wouldn't make it. He would die. He would die without even hearing if Swindon won the football match. He would die alone in a tunnel. He was going to die soon. He was going to die. He was going to-
He saw the dim yet familiar figure. He knew that voice. He knew the hands that caressed his face and pressed down on that wound. He knew this man.
Sherlock.
He had come for him. He had known that something was wrong. Sherlock had known.
In that moment, he didn't know if he could ever love anyone else more than he loved his boyfriend in that moment.
His vision blurred when he saw his boyfriend’s eyes. He was crying, his eyes puffy already. “S-Sherlock…” John whispered, his voice hardly audible.
He was here. He was holding him. He wouldn't die all alone. He would die with Sherlock here. “...sorry…” He muttered.
Sherlock didn’t hear John. He didn't register the change in his breathing patterns; he didn't register the fact that the podcaster was awake. His mind was too broken and his heart was now far beyond fixing. His whole body shook as he held his podcaster's hands.
“Cold hands….” Sherlock sniffed as he started to hyperventilate.
His mind now completely lost; he knew that he should ring Carol, or Mariana or Stamford, hell even ring for an ambulance. But mind had never been so clouded; and his heart had never been so lost; not even in childhood. John wasn't waking up; and there was so much….blood. oh god. He was dead. John was dead. And Sherlock was alone.
No, Sherlock wasn’t just alone. Sherlock was pointless. What was Holmes without his Watson? Sherlock began to cough; from crying so hard; his tears clouded his vision so much that he hardly registered two hands weakly grabbing his face.
John Watson smiled at his boyfriend; using the last of his strength to reach out to him. Sherlock was alone. Sherlock hated being alone; even if he could never admit it. Sherlock was alone and John wanted nothing more than to stay with him. But he was fading; and fast.
He smiled weakly as his boyfriend finally locked eyes with him. He couldn't stay with Sherlock. But he could help lessen the damage that he'd infect by leaving.
“Warm heart….” John's voice was barely a whisper; but that didn't matter. Sherlock had heard him.
Sherlock's top lip turned up in a smile.
“John?” Sherlock's voice was childish and filled with hope; and for a second that hope was infectious; for a second John genuinely believed that he would be ok.
“John thank god…I was so worried; I'll get help and we; we can go home. Sherlock stated as if it were a fact as he prepared to leave until John started coughing.
Sherlock's face fell as fear once again greeted his veins. His eyes fell close out of instinct as John coughed up; ruby red blood on to his face.
“John”
John felt so exhausted. He wanted to sleep. Sherlock's voice barely kept him conscious, even as he coughed up more blood. Sherlock's eyes met his again.
Sherlock wasn't smiling anymore. The blood was splattered onto his face now. The gravity of the moment weighed down onto John once again. His breaths grew faster. “S-Sherls…” He whispered.
Sherlock's hand moved to cup his cheek. “I’m right here, John. Right here.” He whispered, tears streaming down his face.
John’s lips curled into a half-smile. Even with his cold hands, his warm heart always shone through. Sherlock couldn't see the light without his conductor. His conductor was fading.
“I….l-love…you…”
John's body fell limp. The microphone clunked to the ground, echoing through the dark tunnel. John’s shallow wheezing and bloody coughs were no more. He would never speak again, never smile again. He would never cry iridescent tears or feel the agony of a gunshot wound again.
John Watson was dead in the arms of Sherlock Holmes. His dear Watson. His boyfriend. His best friend. His podcaster. His luminous Watson. His… heart.
Sherlock's mind had already deduced it. But his heart couldn't accept it. What was the point of a Holmes without his dear Watson?
“John?” Sherlock's voice shook with emotion as he awaited a reply.
Nothing.
“JOHN ANSWER ME!” Sherlock was getting desperate.
“JOHN PLEASE! “
But John didn't answer. He didn't even react; he just laid lifeless in his boyfriend's arms. This made panic shoot through Sherlock's veins as he finally felt the call to action.
He leaned back; causing John to topple forward slightly; causing Sherlock's brain to go into overdrive. He gently laid John down on his back; biting his lip as he started CPR.
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Sherlock's mind drifted to his and John's first meeting.
“Hiya, mate… You okay? Er, you’re, you’re, you’re bleeding, d’you wanna slow down?”
“I can’t live with him. He’s a criminal.”
And damn it Sherlock wished that he had been nicer.
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His mind flashed back to their first ever real adventure. The illustrious Client.
“OH! The phone! It received a message! SHERLOCK Give me your face.”
“Oww, ow!”
And Sherlock wished that he'd been gentler, he had hurt John; no one should hurt John.
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His mind circled back to the first time that they had kissed; which was after the first time that Sherlock had called his boyfriend a “handsome prince” in the adventure involving, “silverblaze”
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His mind raced as he remembered Mary. Who Sherlock mistook for nothing more than a rebound after they had first broken up. His heart desperately tried to rebel against his mind as he remembered how lost John was without her; now it was his turn to be lost. But without John.
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His heart broke as he recalled the events of the Hound of the Baskervilles; his own words haunting his mind; “you are not luminous, Watson; but you are a conductor of light.”
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Fresh tears violated his face as he finally found his voice.
“WHERE'S THE LIGHT JOHN? WHERES THE FUCKING LIGHT! I'M NOTHING WITHOUT YOU. NOTHING WAKE UP DAMN IT WAKE UP!” Sherlock screamed till his voice went hoarse.
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“JOHN PLEASE PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME JOHN PLEASE I NEED YOU JOHN.”
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“PLEASE JOHN PLEASE I LOVE YOU, JOHN OH GOD I LOVE YOU!”
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I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE GAME ANYMORE; I DON'T NEED A CASE I JUST NEED YOU; PLEASE I'D MARRY YOU PLEASE.”
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I'LL MARRY YOU; I'LL MOVE AWAY FROM LONDON FOR YOU. WE'LL GET A COTTAGE; WE CAN KEEP BEES WE CAN-”
“OH GOD JOHN!”
Sherlock's mind was too broken; his deductive reasoning was off. That's why he didn't register Mariana at his side.
Mariana refused to believe what laid before her in plain sight. Her phone flashlight was on, a harsh electronic light in the darkness. It illuminated the gruesome scene before her. The scene of a tragedy
The blood... god, there was so much of it. A bullet, lodged into that man's chest. That was the wound. His chest had stopped moving... so he was dead. His face-
Blonde, blood-stained hair. Lifeless blue eyes. It looked so much like-
John.
The podcaster had left to go and help out the man. To make sure he was dry in the middle of a rainstorm. He hadn't come back in time for the knighthood. Security always hated his beloved microphone. That was what they assumed had happened. Sherlock had gone to investigate the situation. She had followed after the ceremony. Even if her gut had screamed at her to go after Sherlock immediately.
It couldn't be him.
A silent tear ran down her face. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted the man in front of her to not be John Hamish Watson.
No.
The man holding him was Sherlock Holmes. She had never seen him like this. So emotional. So vulnerable. So… devastated. He was in no place to act, to help out this man.
The man who absolutely could not be John Watson.
Mariana knelt by Sherlock. “Oh my god- okay. I’ll go and call the police and an ambulance. They can help, maybe shock his heart or treat his wounds.” She spoke analytically. “I-I’ll go and do that now. Stay here, Sherlock. I-It's going to be okay, I swear.”
She moved to stand up. A hand moved to her arm. Sherlock's hand.
He didn't look at her. He didn't say a word. But the glimpse she gathered of his face in the phone light told her everything.
It was John Watson.
John was shot. John was covered in blood. John was… not breathing.
She had to get the ambulance, now! They could save him, right?! They could just shock his heart and he would come right back to life. Modern medicine could save her friend.
“S-Sherlock, I’ll be back. I promise, I’ll come back. John… they can save you.” She spoke.
She stood up. Mariana had never ran up a flight of stairs so fast. She had never dialed “999” with shaking hands.
The paramedics would come on time. They had to come on time. She couldn't lose someone like him.
She couldn't bury John so soon.
Sherlock was alone; John was still in his arms; he couldn't take it anymore. It's way too much to handle. Sherlock's started to dislocate; his mind taking over.
John was not in his arms; John was not dead. John was by his side. They were old and grey; and they were planning a picnic.
John was asleep in his chair; and Sherlock was desperately trying to gather the ingredients. They were both happy, safe; alive; and everything was ok.
They both currently lived in a small pink cottage; Sherlock kept bees; he loved bees. He'd sell his honey; John would nap in his chair and no one would hurt them ever again.
Sherlock looked over from his bee hive and smiled at his husband who was currently snoring in his chair with their dog at his side. Everything was ok; and in 10 minutes they'd have a picnic. Sherlock only needed to gather the ingredients. Everything was fine :).
“John oh god John!” Carol cried out; Sherlock turned around in confusion and concern. Carol wasn't here; she sounded upset.
Sherlock shook his head, his eyes once again landing on John who was still sleeping. He must have been imagining things. Carol wasn't here; and if she was she wouldn't be upset; everything was fine. John was fine.
Panic roared in Sherlock's mind; he needed to gather the ingredients for the picnic. He had promised John a picnic and he didn't want to disappoint his husband. John deserved the world; John was fucking amazing. He deserved to be happy; safe; and loved.
“Clear” an unfamiliar voice shouted, shaking the walls of Sherlock's mind palace.
John had saved him. Everything was ok. They would have a picnic.
“Sherlock, I said clear” Sherlock looked around in confusion; no one was there.
Suddenly an unseen force pushed him back as he landed hard on his bee hive. The bees became angry and slowly made their way out of the hive; circling him.
The detective let out a pained cry as his body suddenly went cold.
“Sherlock I'm sorry; I'm so sorry” cried Mariana. Sherlock didn’t understand; Mariana wasn't here.
His eyes never left John as panic started to overwhelm him. He needed help. He needed John.
“John; John please; wake up” his voice sounded weak and broken from crying; he didn't understand. Why was he crying? Everything was ok; Everything was fine. John was safe; John was alive.
“Clear” the haunting sound of a defibrillator bounced off the walls of Sherlock's mind palace. He didn't understand.
He shook his head; tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he eyed John.
“John please; don't leave me” his heart stopped; why was he begging John; not to leave him? Everything was fine. They were safe; they were happy. No one could hurt them.
The bees roared at Sherlock; they gathered together; forming a gigantic cloud above the detective.
“Clear” the sound of a defibrillator once again echoed around Sherlock's brain.
Sherlock opened his mouth; ready to scream out to John’s name, but. Blood. A line of blood ran down John's chest, gathering at his feet. The sight alone made Sherlock sick to his stomach. It was way too much blood for anyone to survive.
“Clear.”
The cloud of bees finally descended on the detective; stinging him one by one; the pain was unbearable but his eyes never left John.
“John please wake up; I love you.” Sherlock cried as tears blurred his vision.
“oh god…but he's my boy….he's my baby boy!” Carol cried out, completely breaking Sherlock's dissociation.
She cradled John in her arms; the same way that a mother would cradle her newborn child. John wasn't breathing; he wasn't fine; he wasn't alive; there would be no picnic; no more game; and no more John Watson ever again.
Sherlock was alone; Sherlock was lost; what was the point in a Holmes without his Watson. Mariana broke down at his side and Sherlock's mind finally failed.
John was dead; and Sherlock would never be okay again.