tell me your definition of love
Title: tell me your definition of love
Pairing: johnlock
Rating: pg
Genre: romance, character death, canon (extremely)
Length: 1229 w
Summary: John's definition of love is a pocket watch that never stops ticking.
tell me your definition of love
Love (n.)
-the way sherlock makes john hate him because he wants to keep him safe, because he knows jim’s going to come, and he’s going to die, and all he needs is for john to be safe. so he sends him away because as long as he knows that somewhere, john is alive, everything is okay. it’s okay that the world thinks he’s a fraud. it’s okay that the’s been outwitted by some criminal consultant. it’s okay. because john is safe.
-the way john looks at mrs. hudson and sees that she’s perfectly fine-she hasn’t been shot-and he realizes what sherlock has done. the way he gives no fucks about the traffic and hijacks a cab, blindly claiming he’s the police, and rushes straight to sherlock because he knows what sherlock’s done-who he’s done it for-and he needs to get back to him. now.
i. "Your friends will die if you don’t." Jim’s words are confident, a smirk creeping its way up his face, because he knows Sherlock will break.
"John."
The first name he utters is John-a quiet breath of the name like it’s the very essence of his life. And then he says two more, because he understands what friendship is now. Because John has taught him, amidst all those jokes and insults and coffee made with unnecessarily high amounts of sugar.
And for the first time, he cares for someone else that isn’t Sherlock Holmes. He cares for his friends-these new friends that he’s found through john-and he’s willing to give up his life to keep them safe. He claims he’s not an angel-never will be one-but he sacrifices himself as a martyr. He lowers his pride and asks Jim to give him a moment of privacy, just before the great Reichenbach Fall, not to do anything clever, but to perhaps muster up the courage to fall. To jump. To save his friends.
Jim sticks the gun in his mouth and Sherlock panics. The trigger goes off and he jumps back in horror-he screams-because he knows that was his last hope-his last chance to be with John, to be with his friends, to live in a world where there were people to care for him.
So he steps onto the ledge of the roof-the last resort-hesitation lacing his very figure.
ii. He glances down at the streets and he sees John get out of the cab-sees his familiar silhouette-and he gets a phone call.
Of course it’s from John.
"Turn around and walk back," he says, and John interrupts.
He can’t seem to remember a time John did not interrupt.
"No, I’m coming in."
The words are so simple, but they display an inexplicable trust between two human beings-an impeccable bond torn not even by Death.
"Just do as I ask. Please."
He has John look up, and John is horrified-of course he’d be horrified: Sherlock Holmes is standing by the edge of a roof.
The sight is almost majestic in a way-Sherlock’s figure charcoal against the white outline of the London sky. His coat billows around him, almost like black wings, and John thinks that Sherlock isn’t an angel from heaven-not the ones people usually see-but an angel from Earth, a clandestine savior for humanity.
"I can’t come down, so I’ll have to do it from here."
John doesn’t understand. He can only stare at Sherlock, half in awe and half in terror.
"What’s going on?"
"An apology. It’s all true."
There’s a pause.
"What?"
John doesn’t know what Sherlock’s talking about, but the gravity in his tone stops him from interrupting further.
"Everything they said about me is true. I invented Moriarty."
The world seems to stop spinning for a second. John takes an involuntary step backwards and sucks in a sharp breath.
"Why are you saying this?"
Sherlock clenches his jaw and blinks rapidly-maybe against the harsh wind, maybe against his tears.
"I’m a fake. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell everyone who’ll listen to you-that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”
John doesn’t believe him. Not when he hears the tremors in Sherlock’s voice, not when he knows that Sherlock would never lie-not to him.
Sherlock shatters all illusions of himself. He’s told him before, “Do not make me into a hero. They do not exist-and if they do, I’ll never be one of them.”
iii. But John never did make him into a hero-he made him into something much more tangible than a hero: a friend. A lover. Someone close.
Sherlock trusts John with his verbal suicide note. He trusts John because John was all he had-through all these years, he’s never felt like he could trust someone. He remembers those afternoons with impromptu violin performances, and John’s annoyed looks when he begins to ask for nicotine patches. He remembers the times they ran halfway across London to escape some Chinese mafia, and the time he ruined John’s date not so much for the case, but because John was his. He was jealous. And now, he’s giving John back to the world, because John was the angel he never was-the hero he never was.
"Goodbye John."
The two words strike a nerve in John, and-
"Nope. Nope. Don’t do this."
Simple words of denial-not even a complete sentence-and Sherlock smiles.
John blurs out of sight, and Sherlock tosses the phone.
"Sherlock!" John screams.
iv. Sherlock doesn’t close his eyes. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. He’s lost. Not to Jim, no, but to John.
He spreads out his arms-his invisible wings-and falls. The world is rushing towards him, and faces flash before him.
Mrs. Hudson.
Molly.
Lestrade.
And finally, John.
Jim was right. Falling was like flying, except with a more permanent destination.
v. John rushes towards Sherlock, but a bike collides into him. He falls to the floor and hits his head against the concrete, but he ignores the pain. He drags himself past the crowd forming around Sherlock’s wrecked body, screaming, “I’m a doctor, let me in please. Let me see my friend!”
He’s staying on his two feet out of sheer will-out of sheer need to see that Sherlock is fine-he’s okay. But Sherlock isn’t okay.
The world dims around him, and he mutters “I’m okay,” again and again to the spectators looking at him with worry, even though he knows that the world will never be okay again.
The world spins into focus much too quickly, and he stands on the wet pavement by Sherlock’s blood, heaving deep breaths that make his entire body shake.
Time runs on for the rest of the world, but it has stopped for John. As it had with Sherlock.
vi. They were like the two hands on an old pocket watch-too archaic for this century-and the hour hand has frozen. The second hand slows to a stop.
Pairing: johnlock
Rating: pg
Genre: romance, character death, canon (extremely)
Length: 1229 w
Summary: John's definition of love is a pocket watch that never stops ticking.
tell me your definition of love
Love (n.)
-the way sherlock makes john hate him because he wants to keep him safe, because he knows jim’s going to come, and he’s going to die, and all he needs is for john to be safe. so he sends him away because as long as he knows that somewhere, john is alive, everything is okay. it’s okay that the world thinks he’s a fraud. it’s okay that the’s been outwitted by some criminal consultant. it’s okay. because john is safe.
-the way john looks at mrs. hudson and sees that she’s perfectly fine-she hasn’t been shot-and he realizes what sherlock has done. the way he gives no fucks about the traffic and hijacks a cab, blindly claiming he’s the police, and rushes straight to sherlock because he knows what sherlock’s done-who he’s done it for-and he needs to get back to him. now.
i. "Your friends will die if you don’t." Jim’s words are confident, a smirk creeping its way up his face, because he knows Sherlock will break.
"John."
The first name he utters is John-a quiet breath of the name like it’s the very essence of his life. And then he says two more, because he understands what friendship is now. Because John has taught him, amidst all those jokes and insults and coffee made with unnecessarily high amounts of sugar.
And for the first time, he cares for someone else that isn’t Sherlock Holmes. He cares for his friends-these new friends that he’s found through john-and he’s willing to give up his life to keep them safe. He claims he’s not an angel-never will be one-but he sacrifices himself as a martyr. He lowers his pride and asks Jim to give him a moment of privacy, just before the great Reichenbach Fall, not to do anything clever, but to perhaps muster up the courage to fall. To jump. To save his friends.
Jim sticks the gun in his mouth and Sherlock panics. The trigger goes off and he jumps back in horror-he screams-because he knows that was his last hope-his last chance to be with John, to be with his friends, to live in a world where there were people to care for him.
So he steps onto the ledge of the roof-the last resort-hesitation lacing his very figure.
ii. He glances down at the streets and he sees John get out of the cab-sees his familiar silhouette-and he gets a phone call.
Of course it’s from John.
"Turn around and walk back," he says, and John interrupts.
He can’t seem to remember a time John did not interrupt.
"No, I’m coming in."
The words are so simple, but they display an inexplicable trust between two human beings-an impeccable bond torn not even by Death.
"Just do as I ask. Please."
He has John look up, and John is horrified-of course he’d be horrified: Sherlock Holmes is standing by the edge of a roof.
The sight is almost majestic in a way-Sherlock’s figure charcoal against the white outline of the London sky. His coat billows around him, almost like black wings, and John thinks that Sherlock isn’t an angel from heaven-not the ones people usually see-but an angel from Earth, a clandestine savior for humanity.
"I can’t come down, so I’ll have to do it from here."
John doesn’t understand. He can only stare at Sherlock, half in awe and half in terror.
"What’s going on?"
"An apology. It’s all true."
There’s a pause.
"What?"
John doesn’t know what Sherlock’s talking about, but the gravity in his tone stops him from interrupting further.
"Everything they said about me is true. I invented Moriarty."
The world seems to stop spinning for a second. John takes an involuntary step backwards and sucks in a sharp breath.
"Why are you saying this?"
Sherlock clenches his jaw and blinks rapidly-maybe against the harsh wind, maybe against his tears.
"I’m a fake. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell everyone who’ll listen to you-that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”
John doesn’t believe him. Not when he hears the tremors in Sherlock’s voice, not when he knows that Sherlock would never lie-not to him.
Sherlock shatters all illusions of himself. He’s told him before, “Do not make me into a hero. They do not exist-and if they do, I’ll never be one of them.”
iii. But John never did make him into a hero-he made him into something much more tangible than a hero: a friend. A lover. Someone close.
Sherlock trusts John with his verbal suicide note. He trusts John because John was all he had-through all these years, he’s never felt like he could trust someone. He remembers those afternoons with impromptu violin performances, and John’s annoyed looks when he begins to ask for nicotine patches. He remembers the times they ran halfway across London to escape some Chinese mafia, and the time he ruined John’s date not so much for the case, but because John was his. He was jealous. And now, he’s giving John back to the world, because John was the angel he never was-the hero he never was.
"Goodbye John."
The two words strike a nerve in John, and-
"Nope. Nope. Don’t do this."
Simple words of denial-not even a complete sentence-and Sherlock smiles.
John blurs out of sight, and Sherlock tosses the phone.
"Sherlock!" John screams.
iv. Sherlock doesn’t close his eyes. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. He’s lost. Not to Jim, no, but to John.
He spreads out his arms-his invisible wings-and falls. The world is rushing towards him, and faces flash before him.
Mrs. Hudson.
Molly.
Lestrade.
And finally, John.
Jim was right. Falling was like flying, except with a more permanent destination.
v. John rushes towards Sherlock, but a bike collides into him. He falls to the floor and hits his head against the concrete, but he ignores the pain. He drags himself past the crowd forming around Sherlock’s wrecked body, screaming, “I’m a doctor, let me in please. Let me see my friend!”
He’s staying on his two feet out of sheer will-out of sheer need to see that Sherlock is fine-he’s okay. But Sherlock isn’t okay.
The world dims around him, and he mutters “I’m okay,” again and again to the spectators looking at him with worry, even though he knows that the world will never be okay again.
The world spins into focus much too quickly, and he stands on the wet pavement by Sherlock’s blood, heaving deep breaths that make his entire body shake.
Time runs on for the rest of the world, but it has stopped for John. As it had with Sherlock.
vi. They were like the two hands on an old pocket watch-too archaic for this century-and the hour hand has frozen. The second hand slows to a stop.