Fic: What Becomes (Of The Brokenhearted)
Rating: Teen
Warnings: angst, presumed character death
Words: ~ 1000
Beta: lady_t_220
Summary: Half a world apart, John and Sherlock deal with the pain of missing each other.
*Part Six of the Hearts At Home series.*
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6th January
Withyham, England
Sherlock would have been thirty years old today. John could hardly believe the day was finally here - and Sherlock wasn't.
The dark marble of Sherlock's gravestone seemed to stand in stark contrast to the rest of the graveyard. It seemed appropriate, somehow, because Sherlock himself had always been set apart from everyone else. At the same time, it was too empty, too cold - too much like the facade Sherlock had tried to project and nothing like the man John had known and loved.
John stepped forward and pressed his hand to the stone, dropping his head and closing his eyes.
"I miss you," he whispered. "I miss you so much."
He took a shaky breath and continued, "I thought it would get easier, but I was wrong. It just gets harder. I don't know what I'm doing anymore."
John had to stop to fight back the tears that threatened to overcome him. He didn't know why he kept coming here - he'd certainly had enough people telling him he needed to move on - but he couldn't bear to go to Baker Street and this was the only other place he felt close to Sherlock. He straightened, glancing at the church and the adjoining house behind him, and then turning to look out towards the village. This was where his life had been changed for good, not that he'd known it at the time.
John slid his hand from the stone of Sherlock's grave and laced his hands together.
"Just... one more miracle. For me, God, please just... don't let him really be dead."
It was a useless prayer, one he had said a hundred times in the previous six months, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from repeating the hopeless words again. He kept his head bowed for several long minutes, his hands clasped tightly together as he silently recited a number of more conventional prayers.
Finally, he lifted his head and took a steadying breath, before turning away from the gravestone. He made his way over to the church and slipped inside to take his seat for the service.
****
Yerevan, Armenia
Badarak was really not that different from the Mass that Sherlock was so familiar with; the words and traditions were foreign, but in the end it was a celebration and a thanksgiving just like any other church service. In this time and place, it was almost like coming home - at least as close to home as he could get.
The final hymn filled the church, the words flowing over Sherlock as incense floated through the air. Finally, the service finished and Sherlock rose from his pew, joining the crowd as they shuffled past the priest, kissing the Gospel and giving thanks. Sherlock paused briefly, giving a nod and a mumbled thank you.
"Mersi." It was one of only a handful of words he knew in Armenian - and not even truly Armenian at that.
The priest gave him a warm smile and moved onto the next person as Sherlock stepped out into the snow, pulling his coat tight around him. He had to edge through the crowd to get out onto the street, but finally he was free and he started off in the direction of his rented room.
Yerevan reverberated with the sound of church bells, signalling the end of services just like the one he had attended. It was Christmas Day today, and the Armenian people had filled the churches to capacity in order to celebrate. Sherlock didn't really feel like celebrating at all, not the birth of Christ, nor his baptism, nor Sherlock's own birthday. Being a world away from family and friends on a day like this this just made it even lonelier than usual. This was exactly why he had decided on the spur of the moment to make his way to the nearest church - in an attempt to search out the comfort his mother, and John, and thousands of others, found in the presence of God.
The service, unfamiliar though it was due to him not being au fait with Orthodox traditions, or the Armenian language, had brought back memories of a time long gone by, when he had sat through seemingly endless services every week. For many years, he had never really understood what was going on, but he had sat patiently and quietly in order to please his mother. At one point, that had been his only goal in life - to please his mother.
As he got older, he began to better understand what was going on, and grew bored and disillusioned with the whole thing. He tried to get out of going as much as possible, but there were certain services his mother wouldn't even entertain the thought of him not attending. He was there, reluctantly, for every one of the Easter services, and Christmas, and - worst of all in his child's mind - the Epiphany service. It wasn't really the service itself that left him so put out, but more a vague sense of injustice that while others spent their birthdays doing what they wanted, he was forced to waste half the morning at church.
Thoughts of church naturally brought with them thoughts of John, and as Sherlock let himself into the tiny room that had been his home for two weeks, he couldn't help wondering what John might be doing today. His chest tightened with emotion as he threw his coat off and slumped on the narrow bed, his hands helplessly fisting the blankets. Six months had gone by, but the ache for John never got any less painful. He let out a long shaky breath and drew his legs up onto the bed, curling up into a ball. He had to see this through to the end, no matter what it took, and then he could go back to John and try to put their lives together again. For the first time in years, Sherlock clasped his hands together and prayed as hard as he could for a way out of this nightmare.