Without You, a Sherlock fanfic
Title: Without You
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: eventual John/Sherlock
Rating: currently G, will almost certainly go up
Word count: 1608
Sherlock Holmes stands in a small, bare room with only a bed for company. As he stares out of the tiny window, he unconsciously toys with two silver discs on a chain around his neck.
He's waiting.
He's been waiting for three days now. Time passes differently here, far from the winding streets of London, miles apart from familiar faces and his... well. And John.
He sighs sadly, a long-fingered hand tightening on the dogtags he stole from the chest under John's bed before he left for Switzerland, for Moriarty. He's never been one for sentimentality, Sherlock, but this small reminder of home has worked as a talisman, a touchstone, a promise to return. He's run his fingers over the words engraved there countless millions of times, remembering his time at home.
Though he can't be certain, he desperately hopes John found the note he left before fleeing. He hopes the doctor understands why he had to do this and will welcome him home. Sherlock smiles a little when he thinks of his homecoming. John will be shocked, of course, and will try not to show how upset and lonely he's been. Ever his soldier. Ever the soldier, Sherlock corrects himself. Then, after the initial anger and questions, Sherlock will confess the feelings he's learned to accept (though he'll never understand them and believe him, he's tried) and John will reciprocate. They'll live a life full of happiness and warmth. And perhaps bees. (Sherlock's not sure where the bees came from, but the idea of keeping them calms him somewhat.)
These pleasant daydreams keep Sherlock company as he putters around the bland room, keeping as quiet as possible. He does not allow himself to entertain the possibility that The Plan will go any differently than he imagines. It has to go that way. John must be with him for the duration of their lives. A world without John - well, it's unthinkable. That would be no life at all, merely an existence. He can not go back to what and who he was before his miraculous ex-Army doctor arrived.
No. Everything must go according to plan.
A noise below startles Sherlock out of his reverie and he hastily tucks the dogtags into his shirt. He creeps to the door, presses and ear against it. His stomach is in knots, his hand shaking with anticipation. This could be it, the end to this nightmare...
Three short knocks, a pause, two more knocks, and a cleared throat. The sign. Sherlock throws open the door, desperate to see who has come to rescue him from this wasteland. He'd even welcome bloody Anderson's face at this point. Fortunately, it's not Anderson who's at the door.
"Hello Sherlock. I've come to fetch you home." says DI Greg Lestrade, poorly hiding a grin of epic proportions and pretending tears aren't gathering in his eyes. Sherlock surges forward and hugs the older man with all his strength. He sniffs quietly and Lestrade chuckles, squeezing the tall man tighter. "I've missed you as well."
In London, Dr John Watson arrives home once again to an empty flat. It's taken three years, but he's finally stopped rushing home from the surgery every day, hoping against hope to see Sherlock prostrate on their couch, fingers steepled under his chin, asking for something utterly inane. John sighs heavily and hangs his coat on the hook. Always the same hook, never Sherlock's. No one ever uses Sherlock's hook - not Lestrade, not Molly, not Mycroft. Only Sherlock's over-priced, bat-like coat hangs there.
Picking up the grocery bags from where he dropped them, John shuffles to the kitchen, which has not changed much in three years. Though there are no ongoing experiments, the chemistry set is still laid out on the table. John didn't even touch whatever liquids were in the beakers, though they've long since evaporated and left strange-smelling crusts inside. He's certain Sherlock will have a field day playing with them if - when he returns. Even the refrigerator is mostly unchanged - edibles on the bottom shelf and in the left drawer, things not suitable for human consumption on the top and in the right drawer. John stows his milk, butter, jam, eggs and grapes, then straightens to unload into the freezer. The fingers that were in the refrigerator when Sherlock left have a new home in the freezer. John gives them a fond look. He can't help but remember the first time he found a head in the fridge - how things have changed. Now he wishes every day that he'd come home to something like that.
A wave of nostalgia, of loneliness, of suffering hits him so hard he almost falls to his knees. He grips the edge of the counter to keep himself upright, but his throat is constricting and he's gasping for air. Automatically, his hand goes to his wallet. In a tiny pocket, he finds the note Sherlock left him. The expensive paper is practically falling apart from the countless millions of times John's opened it to read Sherlock's final words to him, and the ink is beginning to fade. Through tears that suddenly blur his vision, he reads the words he's had memorized for three years:
John -
This is not how I wanted to leave you, but this is how it must be. Understand that I can not at this time explain myself. When I can, I shall. Wherever I go, know that I will think of you often. Help Lestrade. We all know he needs it. Ignore Anderson. He's a git. (John always laughs at the part, now matter how much he's crying,) If you should ever think of me, remember this: you made my life a happy one, and there is no tragedy in that.
S. Holmes
By the time he's finished reading, John is breathing normally, though the ache in his chest throbs dully and there are tears drying on his cheeks. He brushes his fingers over the spidery handwriting, wondering, as he always does when he reads this note, where Sherlock is and what he's doing. And if he's alive. John crumples the note in his hand as he's done a thousand times before and wonders if this time this time he'll be able to throw it away, to pack up his things and leave the flat, to forget about Sherlock Holmes and the battlefield that is London. His fist tightens and his left hand spasms and he wants to pick himself up off the floor and move on to the life he'd imagined as a child, as a med student, as a soldier. Could he do it? Go back to a regular life?
The answer, as always, is no.
"Goddammit, Sherlock." John growls under his breath. He relaxes his hand, smooths out the paper and folds it precisely as he found it That Day. He'd arrived home from the surgery as usual, a Tesco's bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
"Raining buckets out there, Sherlock. Hope we don't get called out." he'd called from the stoop outside 221B while he leaned his umbrella against the wall to dry. His coat had gone on it's hook and that's when he'd noticed the eerie silence of the flat. The place was often silent, as Sherlock had been telling the truth when he mentioned he'd go days on end without speaking, but this... this was a different kind of quiet. It felt as though everything was holding it's breath. Attempting to shrug off the feeling of impending doom, John had put away the tea, milk and sugar and rummaged for something to eat. Upon finding nothing suitable, he'd called out to Sherlock, asking which takeaway he wanted to order from. Nothing. Spooked, John had searched the flat and found no sign of the detective. He'd done a second, more thorough search and that's when he'd found The Note. Typical, John had thought when he'd found it under the Union Jack pillow on his favorite armchair (one time Sherlock had left riddles all over the flat, telling John how to get to a specific crime scene). Then he'd opened it. He'd had to read it six times before the words actually meant anything. He'd grabbed his mobile and called Mycroft.
"Mycroft, what is this?"
"John, what a pleasant surprise. I'm sure I don't know what it is to which you're referring."
"Of course you bloody know. Where is he?"
"Doctor Watson, that is - "
"Do not Doctor Watson me, Mycroft. Where. Is. Sherlock? Why did he leave me this note? What is he talking about?" John had started to panic. The last time Mycroft had used his title instead of his name, Harry had recently been admitted to the hospital with liver failure.
"John. I very much wish that I could explain the situation, but even I know very little of Sherlock's plan of action. He seemed to think it was in everyone's best interest to know as little as possible about his location. Once he has completed what mission he deems necessary, he will return and explain everything."
Three years later, Sherlock is still missing. Mycroft doesn't know anything. Neither does Lestrade. At least, that's what they tell John.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: eventual John/Sherlock
Rating: currently G, will almost certainly go up
Word count: 1608
Sherlock Holmes stands in a small, bare room with only a bed for company. As he stares out of the tiny window, he unconsciously toys with two silver discs on a chain around his neck.
He's waiting.
He's been waiting for three days now. Time passes differently here, far from the winding streets of London, miles apart from familiar faces and his... well. And John.
He sighs sadly, a long-fingered hand tightening on the dogtags he stole from the chest under John's bed before he left for Switzerland, for Moriarty. He's never been one for sentimentality, Sherlock, but this small reminder of home has worked as a talisman, a touchstone, a promise to return. He's run his fingers over the words engraved there countless millions of times, remembering his time at home.
Though he can't be certain, he desperately hopes John found the note he left before fleeing. He hopes the doctor understands why he had to do this and will welcome him home. Sherlock smiles a little when he thinks of his homecoming. John will be shocked, of course, and will try not to show how upset and lonely he's been. Ever his soldier. Ever the soldier, Sherlock corrects himself. Then, after the initial anger and questions, Sherlock will confess the feelings he's learned to accept (though he'll never understand them and believe him, he's tried) and John will reciprocate. They'll live a life full of happiness and warmth. And perhaps bees. (Sherlock's not sure where the bees came from, but the idea of keeping them calms him somewhat.)
These pleasant daydreams keep Sherlock company as he putters around the bland room, keeping as quiet as possible. He does not allow himself to entertain the possibility that The Plan will go any differently than he imagines. It has to go that way. John must be with him for the duration of their lives. A world without John - well, it's unthinkable. That would be no life at all, merely an existence. He can not go back to what and who he was before his miraculous ex-Army doctor arrived.
No. Everything must go according to plan.
A noise below startles Sherlock out of his reverie and he hastily tucks the dogtags into his shirt. He creeps to the door, presses and ear against it. His stomach is in knots, his hand shaking with anticipation. This could be it, the end to this nightmare...
Three short knocks, a pause, two more knocks, and a cleared throat. The sign. Sherlock throws open the door, desperate to see who has come to rescue him from this wasteland. He'd even welcome bloody Anderson's face at this point. Fortunately, it's not Anderson who's at the door.
"Hello Sherlock. I've come to fetch you home." says DI Greg Lestrade, poorly hiding a grin of epic proportions and pretending tears aren't gathering in his eyes. Sherlock surges forward and hugs the older man with all his strength. He sniffs quietly and Lestrade chuckles, squeezing the tall man tighter. "I've missed you as well."
In London, Dr John Watson arrives home once again to an empty flat. It's taken three years, but he's finally stopped rushing home from the surgery every day, hoping against hope to see Sherlock prostrate on their couch, fingers steepled under his chin, asking for something utterly inane. John sighs heavily and hangs his coat on the hook. Always the same hook, never Sherlock's. No one ever uses Sherlock's hook - not Lestrade, not Molly, not Mycroft. Only Sherlock's over-priced, bat-like coat hangs there.
Picking up the grocery bags from where he dropped them, John shuffles to the kitchen, which has not changed much in three years. Though there are no ongoing experiments, the chemistry set is still laid out on the table. John didn't even touch whatever liquids were in the beakers, though they've long since evaporated and left strange-smelling crusts inside. He's certain Sherlock will have a field day playing with them if - when he returns. Even the refrigerator is mostly unchanged - edibles on the bottom shelf and in the left drawer, things not suitable for human consumption on the top and in the right drawer. John stows his milk, butter, jam, eggs and grapes, then straightens to unload into the freezer. The fingers that were in the refrigerator when Sherlock left have a new home in the freezer. John gives them a fond look. He can't help but remember the first time he found a head in the fridge - how things have changed. Now he wishes every day that he'd come home to something like that.
A wave of nostalgia, of loneliness, of suffering hits him so hard he almost falls to his knees. He grips the edge of the counter to keep himself upright, but his throat is constricting and he's gasping for air. Automatically, his hand goes to his wallet. In a tiny pocket, he finds the note Sherlock left him. The expensive paper is practically falling apart from the countless millions of times John's opened it to read Sherlock's final words to him, and the ink is beginning to fade. Through tears that suddenly blur his vision, he reads the words he's had memorized for three years:
John -
This is not how I wanted to leave you, but this is how it must be. Understand that I can not at this time explain myself. When I can, I shall. Wherever I go, know that I will think of you often. Help Lestrade. We all know he needs it. Ignore Anderson. He's a git. (John always laughs at the part, now matter how much he's crying,) If you should ever think of me, remember this: you made my life a happy one, and there is no tragedy in that.
S. Holmes
By the time he's finished reading, John is breathing normally, though the ache in his chest throbs dully and there are tears drying on his cheeks. He brushes his fingers over the spidery handwriting, wondering, as he always does when he reads this note, where Sherlock is and what he's doing. And if he's alive. John crumples the note in his hand as he's done a thousand times before and wonders if this time this time he'll be able to throw it away, to pack up his things and leave the flat, to forget about Sherlock Holmes and the battlefield that is London. His fist tightens and his left hand spasms and he wants to pick himself up off the floor and move on to the life he'd imagined as a child, as a med student, as a soldier. Could he do it? Go back to a regular life?
The answer, as always, is no.
"Goddammit, Sherlock." John growls under his breath. He relaxes his hand, smooths out the paper and folds it precisely as he found it That Day. He'd arrived home from the surgery as usual, a Tesco's bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
"Raining buckets out there, Sherlock. Hope we don't get called out." he'd called from the stoop outside 221B while he leaned his umbrella against the wall to dry. His coat had gone on it's hook and that's when he'd noticed the eerie silence of the flat. The place was often silent, as Sherlock had been telling the truth when he mentioned he'd go days on end without speaking, but this... this was a different kind of quiet. It felt as though everything was holding it's breath. Attempting to shrug off the feeling of impending doom, John had put away the tea, milk and sugar and rummaged for something to eat. Upon finding nothing suitable, he'd called out to Sherlock, asking which takeaway he wanted to order from. Nothing. Spooked, John had searched the flat and found no sign of the detective. He'd done a second, more thorough search and that's when he'd found The Note. Typical, John had thought when he'd found it under the Union Jack pillow on his favorite armchair (one time Sherlock had left riddles all over the flat, telling John how to get to a specific crime scene). Then he'd opened it. He'd had to read it six times before the words actually meant anything. He'd grabbed his mobile and called Mycroft.
"Mycroft, what is this?"
"John, what a pleasant surprise. I'm sure I don't know what it is to which you're referring."
"Of course you bloody know. Where is he?"
"Doctor Watson, that is - "
"Do not Doctor Watson me, Mycroft. Where. Is. Sherlock? Why did he leave me this note? What is he talking about?" John had started to panic. The last time Mycroft had used his title instead of his name, Harry had recently been admitted to the hospital with liver failure.
"John. I very much wish that I could explain the situation, but even I know very little of Sherlock's plan of action. He seemed to think it was in everyone's best interest to know as little as possible about his location. Once he has completed what mission he deems necessary, he will return and explain everything."
Three years later, Sherlock is still missing. Mycroft doesn't know anything. Neither does Lestrade. At least, that's what they tell John.