Sometimes I feel like I'm Permafrost | John/Sherlock | Sherlock BBC | PG
Title: Sometimes I feel like I'm Permafrost
Author: poptartmuse
Words: 1380
Rating: PG for some language.
Warnings: Spoilers for 2x03 "The Reichenbach Fall." YOU ARE WARNED.
Pairings: Johnlock, preslash.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, it merely owns my heart.
Summary: After the fall, fix-it. Title from the Laurena Segura song "Permafrost." GO LISTEN TO IT. Feel free to listen to it while reading this fic, it's very appropriate for it.
There are few words that John can come up with to describe his place in the world after the death of Sherlock Holmes. Few things that can really encompass what the world had lost and so, so bloody easily thrown away, like trash into a bin, too confusing a man for the cookie-cutter story they all had wanted. Sherlock the fraud, Sherlock the lunatic, Sherlock the grand orchestrator: John had heard it all but absorbed little. The words flowed through one ear and out the other, because if there was one thing John knew, it was that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. Sherlock Holmes was his friend.
His best friend.
"You're wrong," he tells Lestrade, who has invited himself over for tea and biscuits. "You just are."
"Sherlock was my friend too, you know," Lestrade says, letting his tea cup grow cold in front of him, untouched. "I was, blimey, I was shocked too--"
"The Sherlock that existed is the one that solved crimes, not created them," John snapped back bitterly. "And I think you'd better leave now."
Lestrade gives him a long look, then stands up and clears his throat.
"I'm sorry, John," he tells him stiffly, as if addressing a grieving widow or brother in arms. "I believed in Sherlock Holmes. I'm sorry you still do."
"Get out," John hisses. "Get out."
Lestrade closes the door quietly behind him while John buries his head in his hands, shoulders shaking from the effort to calm his hysterics.
Three weeks after the fact, Donovan comes over with Anderson in tow, and John slams the door in their faces.
It's what Sherlock would have wanted.
He visits the gravesite three times. The first was the funeral, and in his mind's eye John can see himself giving the eulogy, his voice cracking on the words best friend and genuine hero. Every word had hurt, like a knife to the gut, and he had stumbled back toward Mrs. Hudson, who in her ever present wisdom let John's full weight sway against her as they lowered the casket into the grave. She did not budge an inch.
The second time was short, but John had felt it necessary to return. He had to tell Sherlock, had to tell him face to face how much he meant to him, how he had been so... so alone. So miserable. And then Sherlock had brought him into this world of adventure, and he owed him everything. He owed him his life back, three times over. Sherlock had been his miracle.
It wasn't enough.
It wasn't enough to have had Sherlock. He needed Sherlock back, now, today. He needed him back in his life, back to the world of the living, back into 221B Baker Street, back to being the only consulting detective in the world. John Watson needed Sherlock Holmes not to be dead.
The world just didn't make sense without him.
John visits his therapist twice after Sherlock jumps. Once, he just sits there and weeps openly for the first half hour, and for the second half hour he stares at the floor, quiet and still. The second time, he tells her he can't talk about it, he just can't, and that's that.
John stays at Harry's for a few months after it happens. In fact, he hadn't planned on going back to Baker Street, but then Mrs. Hudson calls and asks if he can help move some furniture around, and somehow John finds himself back in 221B. Sherlock had left him everything, so keeping the flat was simple enough, money-wise. It was the ghost that sat in wait for him there that made things so bloody difficult. Every so often, John would turn and do a double take, for there would be, for a quick second, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, reading a text; Mr. Sherlock Holmes, stabbing the Cluedo game board into the wall; Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with the twinkle in his eye of a secret clue that nobody else knows except him, because the rest of the world is so vacant in comparison. And then John blinks, and the room is empty, and John is still alone.
John visits the cemetery a third time a year after Sherlock's jump. The pain has stopped being absolutely raw inside his chest; instead, he feels the constant hurt of a wound that hasn't really healed properly lying beneath the surface, deep enough to hurt every bloody day. The gravestone hasn't been very well kept since the last time he was there, and John spends a few moments brushing some stray leaves off the top. Grass has grown over the plot, and what John remembers as a fresh pad of dirt is now green and lush beneath his feet. He hasn't got flowers, or a wreath, but he plops down a pack of nicotine patches at the foot of the headstone. John closes his eyes and breathes, trying not relive the past year in vain as images flick over his memory of Sherlock on the roof, reaching out to him, and then falling, falling so far. John wipes his eyes before he can cry, and looks up.
There's a tree behind the plot, and against the tree stands a man in a dark coat.
"John," the man says.
"I've gone insane," John says, hands slack at his waist. "I've actually gone mental. Mind's done a bunk."
"John, I had to, it was the only way," the man under the tree continues, approaching John now at a swift clip. "I swore Molly to secrecy, John, he was going to kill you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade--"
The knife that had been lodged in John Watson's heart since January 15th of last year slowly begins to dislodge.
"Kill us?" he asks reflexively.
"But not anymore," the man says, now directly in front of him. "I faked my death to save you. I figured one death instead of three would be the kind of thing a hero would do."
John is quiet for a long moment, and then he can't see because tears have blocked his vision; only a blur of black woolen coat stands before him, and then John is clutching at him desperately, hugging him viciously as if to rend the coat completely in two, and thanking Sherlock for his last miracle.
Don't be dead.
"I'm sorry it had to be this way," Sherlock says, voice muffled by John's hair.
John pulls back at last, wiping his eyes. He sniffles quietly.
"I knew you'd get on okay without me," Sherlock starts, tone light.
"Don't," John says harshly. "I have not been getting on, Sherlock." He locks eyes with the taller man. "I have been stuck. Stuck in place. For a year."
Sherlock closes his eyes. "I couldn't watch you die."
"D'you think it was easy? Seeing you-- seeing you fall," John chokes out, and God, every word, every bloody word just releases him somehow, and he can't take his eyes off Sherlock, for it felt like if he blinked, the man would vanish, yet again.
"You are the stronger man," Sherlock says quietly, succinctly. "I would not have... made it. If you had been shot." Sherlock stops, then clears his throat. "I would have followed you."
The admission is striking. John tilts his head.
"You would have killed yourself?" he asks.
Sherlock smiles. "What am I without my blogger?"
John wraps his arms around Sherlock again, to make sure the man before him is not a phantom, or an angel, or some kind of hologram sent to torture the remnants of sanity left in his being. He lets go.
"Should we go give Mrs. Hudson the surprise of her life, then?" John asks briskly. Sherlock chuckles.
"Yes, and then Lestrade. In person, I think. I want to see Donovan's face when I explain it all," the world's only consulting detective laughs. "And hopefully Anderson's already been fired."
"Well, we've run out of miracles for the day, I wouldn't bet on Anderson getting let go," John laughs, and the two start walking out of the cemetery.
"You know that headstone cost me a bloody fortune."
"I'll pay you back."
"You're on groceries. For three years."
"... Done."
Author: poptartmuse
Words: 1380
Rating: PG for some language.
Warnings: Spoilers for 2x03 "The Reichenbach Fall." YOU ARE WARNED.
Pairings: Johnlock, preslash.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, it merely owns my heart.
Summary: After the fall, fix-it. Title from the Laurena Segura song "Permafrost." GO LISTEN TO IT. Feel free to listen to it while reading this fic, it's very appropriate for it.
There are few words that John can come up with to describe his place in the world after the death of Sherlock Holmes. Few things that can really encompass what the world had lost and so, so bloody easily thrown away, like trash into a bin, too confusing a man for the cookie-cutter story they all had wanted. Sherlock the fraud, Sherlock the lunatic, Sherlock the grand orchestrator: John had heard it all but absorbed little. The words flowed through one ear and out the other, because if there was one thing John knew, it was that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. Sherlock Holmes was his friend.
His best friend.
"You're wrong," he tells Lestrade, who has invited himself over for tea and biscuits. "You just are."
"Sherlock was my friend too, you know," Lestrade says, letting his tea cup grow cold in front of him, untouched. "I was, blimey, I was shocked too--"
"The Sherlock that existed is the one that solved crimes, not created them," John snapped back bitterly. "And I think you'd better leave now."
Lestrade gives him a long look, then stands up and clears his throat.
"I'm sorry, John," he tells him stiffly, as if addressing a grieving widow or brother in arms. "I believed in Sherlock Holmes. I'm sorry you still do."
"Get out," John hisses. "Get out."
Lestrade closes the door quietly behind him while John buries his head in his hands, shoulders shaking from the effort to calm his hysterics.
Three weeks after the fact, Donovan comes over with Anderson in tow, and John slams the door in their faces.
It's what Sherlock would have wanted.
He visits the gravesite three times. The first was the funeral, and in his mind's eye John can see himself giving the eulogy, his voice cracking on the words best friend and genuine hero. Every word had hurt, like a knife to the gut, and he had stumbled back toward Mrs. Hudson, who in her ever present wisdom let John's full weight sway against her as they lowered the casket into the grave. She did not budge an inch.
The second time was short, but John had felt it necessary to return. He had to tell Sherlock, had to tell him face to face how much he meant to him, how he had been so... so alone. So miserable. And then Sherlock had brought him into this world of adventure, and he owed him everything. He owed him his life back, three times over. Sherlock had been his miracle.
It wasn't enough.
It wasn't enough to have had Sherlock. He needed Sherlock back, now, today. He needed him back in his life, back to the world of the living, back into 221B Baker Street, back to being the only consulting detective in the world. John Watson needed Sherlock Holmes not to be dead.
The world just didn't make sense without him.
John visits his therapist twice after Sherlock jumps. Once, he just sits there and weeps openly for the first half hour, and for the second half hour he stares at the floor, quiet and still. The second time, he tells her he can't talk about it, he just can't, and that's that.
John stays at Harry's for a few months after it happens. In fact, he hadn't planned on going back to Baker Street, but then Mrs. Hudson calls and asks if he can help move some furniture around, and somehow John finds himself back in 221B. Sherlock had left him everything, so keeping the flat was simple enough, money-wise. It was the ghost that sat in wait for him there that made things so bloody difficult. Every so often, John would turn and do a double take, for there would be, for a quick second, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, reading a text; Mr. Sherlock Holmes, stabbing the Cluedo game board into the wall; Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with the twinkle in his eye of a secret clue that nobody else knows except him, because the rest of the world is so vacant in comparison. And then John blinks, and the room is empty, and John is still alone.
John visits the cemetery a third time a year after Sherlock's jump. The pain has stopped being absolutely raw inside his chest; instead, he feels the constant hurt of a wound that hasn't really healed properly lying beneath the surface, deep enough to hurt every bloody day. The gravestone hasn't been very well kept since the last time he was there, and John spends a few moments brushing some stray leaves off the top. Grass has grown over the plot, and what John remembers as a fresh pad of dirt is now green and lush beneath his feet. He hasn't got flowers, or a wreath, but he plops down a pack of nicotine patches at the foot of the headstone. John closes his eyes and breathes, trying not relive the past year in vain as images flick over his memory of Sherlock on the roof, reaching out to him, and then falling, falling so far. John wipes his eyes before he can cry, and looks up.
There's a tree behind the plot, and against the tree stands a man in a dark coat.
"John," the man says.
"I've gone insane," John says, hands slack at his waist. "I've actually gone mental. Mind's done a bunk."
"John, I had to, it was the only way," the man under the tree continues, approaching John now at a swift clip. "I swore Molly to secrecy, John, he was going to kill you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade--"
The knife that had been lodged in John Watson's heart since January 15th of last year slowly begins to dislodge.
"Kill us?" he asks reflexively.
"But not anymore," the man says, now directly in front of him. "I faked my death to save you. I figured one death instead of three would be the kind of thing a hero would do."
John is quiet for a long moment, and then he can't see because tears have blocked his vision; only a blur of black woolen coat stands before him, and then John is clutching at him desperately, hugging him viciously as if to rend the coat completely in two, and thanking Sherlock for his last miracle.
Don't be dead.
"I'm sorry it had to be this way," Sherlock says, voice muffled by John's hair.
John pulls back at last, wiping his eyes. He sniffles quietly.
"I knew you'd get on okay without me," Sherlock starts, tone light.
"Don't," John says harshly. "I have not been getting on, Sherlock." He locks eyes with the taller man. "I have been stuck. Stuck in place. For a year."
Sherlock closes his eyes. "I couldn't watch you die."
"D'you think it was easy? Seeing you-- seeing you fall," John chokes out, and God, every word, every bloody word just releases him somehow, and he can't take his eyes off Sherlock, for it felt like if he blinked, the man would vanish, yet again.
"You are the stronger man," Sherlock says quietly, succinctly. "I would not have... made it. If you had been shot." Sherlock stops, then clears his throat. "I would have followed you."
The admission is striking. John tilts his head.
"You would have killed yourself?" he asks.
Sherlock smiles. "What am I without my blogger?"
John wraps his arms around Sherlock again, to make sure the man before him is not a phantom, or an angel, or some kind of hologram sent to torture the remnants of sanity left in his being. He lets go.
"Should we go give Mrs. Hudson the surprise of her life, then?" John asks briskly. Sherlock chuckles.
"Yes, and then Lestrade. In person, I think. I want to see Donovan's face when I explain it all," the world's only consulting detective laughs. "And hopefully Anderson's already been fired."
"Well, we've run out of miracles for the day, I wouldn't bet on Anderson getting let go," John laughs, and the two start walking out of the cemetery.
"You know that headstone cost me a bloody fortune."
"I'll pay you back."
"You're on groceries. For three years."
"... Done."