Work Text:
There were a lot things forever unspoken between them; for example the fact that Sherlock secretly enjoyed it when John was rambling mindlessly about completely uninteresting topics that added no valuable informations. Or the fact that John secretly enjoyed hearing the violin all night long, it comforted him to hear the presence of his detective when falling asleep
But there were things left unspoken that should have been spoken out loud, things that might have changed everything yet never got the privilege to be more than just a thought; They fell the moment they met.
.
.
.
„ Oiii! Now Don‘t fall down the railings Mate“ John grunted trough gritted teeth while they were running after the suspected murderer, who fled through the stations of Londons underground. The case had been solved pretty quick, it took sherlock a mere few hours before figuring out the actual perpetrator, what a delightful and easy case it was; and so they thought until the suspect stormed out of the house which led to John and Sherlock hunting him down for the past 28 minutes.
Both of them were already way past their limit, panting and desperately trying to keep up. Johns legs ached beneath him and he could feel them giving up pretty soon. His once healed wound from the war feeling more and more present with every step. Sherlock was only a few centimeters in front him, visibly out of breath but still focused on the suspect, only a few meters out their reach. The dedective managed to shortend their distance by half a meter, reaching out his arm, „We almost got him Watson!“ he exclaimed with the last but if breath he had left
.
.
A sound cut trough the air; the brackets of a train screeching like a crow getting it‘s guts ripped out alive. John barely noticed the suspect running through the corner and Sherlock fell to his knees with a tortured expression on his face. His hands raised slightly as if trying a desperate attempt to cover bis ears and his fingers twitching uncontrollably.
Sherlock hated that sound; it sounded like someone reached into his brain and ripped his eyes out with a chainsaw
John was by his side in seconds, unsure while hovering his arms above his friend, questioning himself wether a hug would make this situation better worse now. Seeing the tears running down sherlocks face he quickly decided to risk it and embrace his friend in his arms, gripping him tightly to his chest
„there, there Now try to breath in out slowly, yeah? Can you do that for me mate?“, John could hear Sherlock trying to steady his breath but failings miserably, sounding almost like he was chocking on his tears. It was painful and quite unsusql to see Sherlock like this, who usually always did a pretty good job at maintaining his composure in public. John had rarely seen his beloved companion so vulnerable.
He almost considered pulling out his phone and calling Marriana when something in the background suddenly caught Sherlocks eyes before he whipped his head up, jumped to his feet and suddenly ran with a speed John had rarely seen „SHERLOCK, WAIT FOR GODS SAKE!“ John followed him as fast as he can, thinking about a thousand possibilities what motivated Sherlock to suddenly run away. Was he about to throw himself infront of the next train? John prayed he was wrong with his assumptions as he desperatly tried to keep up, feeling his legs hurting in an unbearable manner again.
Then John finally saw it; their suspect running from the next corner, looking for a way out and crashing right into Sherlock who immediately jumped on his back and pressed him to the floor. „You stay still now, you fucking bastard“ he growled with an unsteady voice. His hands were still quite shaky and his eyes still damp but what shocked John the most was hearing the sherlock swear in such an unnusal manner 30 seconds after laying curled up on the floor experiencing what John assumed to have been some sort of meltdown.
„Will you now finally stop staring and help me get this bloody twat arrested?“ Sherlock suddenly stared him after he jerked his head up to him,looking almost offended at Johns worried expression. The dedective turned his head to the suspect beneath his knees again; „I told you, the game is still afoot my dear companion“
.
.
And this might have been the moment, as John stared at Sherlock, sitting on the ground with a confident expression while his eyes were glistening with excitement for having solved yet another case(or perhaps they were glistening with tears, John couldn‘t tell) This was the moment that John realized he had fallen into place he could never return from; He had fallen for Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
„Do you um… Do you perhaps want to go the next pub? You know like an evening drink to calm down.“
.
.
.
.
„Tea with Marshmallows?! You really ordered that at a bloody bar Mate? To be honest; I‘m surprised they didn‘t execute you on the spot Sherls“
„Execute me? Is that what you would deem appropriate for my choice of drink, Watson?“ Sherlock hummed while stirring his cup, looking absently at Johns microphone on the table. Unexpectedly he picked it up and held it close to his face; „You hear that listeners, your so called favorite podcaster wishes to see the leading detective of this country hanging from a tree, simply for preferring his tea with a bit of sweetness“ he chuckled with a joyful tone, John wished he would hear more often from Sherlock
God, hearing him laugh was better than every pint this bar could offer. Somethimes John imagined how his life would be if he had never met Sherlock, god what a depressing thought that was. How would he have spend his life or managed a podcast, while his own life had been so empty and meaningless before after he retired from the army. Originally he wanted to make a podcast about other veterans like him, yet no one he asked ever actually showed up to share their own story, no one actually called or messaged or added anything to Johns dull and meaningless Life.
Well, that was until he finally met his bloody annoying roommate who kept him up with the that damn beautiful violin of his every single night and completely turned his life around. Johns thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock holding that damn monstrosity of a teacup in his face
„You sure you don‘t wanna try? it has quite an interesting and peculiar taste, one that you even you might enjoy“, he said with a completely serious looking face that made John wonder if he actually meant that or just wanted to him regret every single decision of his life with just one sip
„Nahh I‘m good mate“, John shook his head and shooed Sherlock hands away but finally he continued with his question; „Sherlock, let‘s say we never would have met, how do you think your life would look like?“
Sherlock thought about for a few seconds while staring into cup before looking at John again. „Quit boring I presume, I might have lived on street with Wiggins or got myself another roommate. Either way, my Crime solving certainly wouldn’t have been as successful without my dear companion at my side“
There it was again; „Dear companion“ John murmured while he could feel his heart leaping. „Your words are so unusually nice today Mate, you sure you haven‘t hit your head today?“ John chuckled while trying to provoke him further „Perhaps as your ˋdear companioń and doctor, I might have to do a mental check on you.“
Sherlock gasped with a high pitched „excuse me?! Are you really implying, I am mentally unwell simply because I am nice? I was merely speaking the truth doctor“ he said with a sarcastic tone and a sheepish grin on his face, John wished he would see more often.
Those were the kind of moments that John wished to last forever. Just them sitting at a bar and bantering over mindless questions until either Sherlock decided that it was time to leave or Marriana dragged them back back to their flat. Gosh how much he loved this life here, their flat, the podcast, how much he loved-
The sound of a teacup shattering on the floor on the floor interrupted him before he could have finished that thought.
.
.
.
„SHERLOCK! IN GODS NAME, WERE ARE YOU?!“ John screamed through the darkness of the empty underground station, his chest heaving and his throat feeling like it was burning up in flames. After he realized that Sherlocks disappearence was connected to a plan to hunt down Moriarty himself,he stormed out 221b, more terrified than he had ever been.
John had seen war, he saw people slowly suffocating in their own blood right infront of him, he saw children getting blown up alive but nothing in this godforsaken world could have compared to the terror he felt when he saw that note on their shared kitchen table. Sherlock was usually a man of many words, always integrating as many details as possible into his sentences to convey his most complex thoughts. But this note was different, just a few mere words scribbled in hurry and fear; „I‘m sorry John, do not follow me“ .
John never ran as fast as he did that night following Sherlocks last gps signal until he came to the empty station, searching desperately for the person he held most precious.
Then suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny but familiar red light flickering a few meters in front of him; the familiar light of his second microphone illuminating the silhouette of the man John loved most in this world standing right there infront of the tracks. Johns eyes filled with the tears of relief to have found finally Sherlock seemingly alive and well. „Oh thank the God Sherlock, I was so terrified that I would never see you —„
„I‘m sorry John,“ The words echoed trough the dark empty station as the sillhouette slowly raised the microphone in their hand to their mouth and whispered their last message. „Im so sorry my dear companion,for falling for you“
And then John realized it; the meaning behind the message. He could hear the faint sounds of a train coming near as the the silhoutte came a step forwards, letting the microphone fall to the ground, which made a disgusting shattering sound
.
.
And then the world came to a halt as Johns heart stopped in his chest, „Sh..Sherlock No, don‘t you bloody dare, DON‘T YOU FUCKING DARE GO ONE STEP FURTHER,“ Johns voice broke down in a sob and his lungs gave before he managed to breath out his last few words; „Please Sherlock, I…“ he cried desperately „I..I love you—„
If the detective ever heard these words was uncertain because in that moment Sherlock holmes fell for John Watson. He fell forward
.
.
.
Rain poured down the old Mans body as he dragged himself trough the streets of London, looking for somewhere to rest. He had been aimlessly walking trough the city for hours, or perhaps even days (he didn’t quite remember) in search of something, anything that might give him sort of purpose or sense of belonging. A word came to mind; „Bakerstreet“ the man muttered under his breath as he tried to remember
The screeching sound of the Train brakes nearby interrupted his thoughts as he flinched and reached for his nonexistent microphone in his pocket to seek some sort of familiar comfort. Gosh he really hated that sound vile sound more than anything else in this world
For some reason it reminded him of blood being splattered, of bones shattered and flesh being torn apart by a loud unstoppable force. It reminded him of death
„Sherlock“ he whispered. Yes that‘s right, Sherlock hated that sound too, a shame it was last thing Sherlock probably heard in his life. As the memories came back, more and more tears started to fall down Johns face until he broke down to his knees, desperately reaching for his microphone again which he could not find. He heard the faint of melody of a familiar violin somewhere around him yet he couldnˋt quite place where it came from.
Sometimes he wondered, wether Sherlock ever heard his last words before the train got him.