rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter nineteen

a.n I'll see you guys in heaven

we flew like angels
without wings.
a.n

||JOHN||

It was the special day John had been planning. The day, of just simply Sherlock. The one day he could celebrate what was good and enjoy that Sherlock had survived his eighteenth birthday. He didn't invite people, he didn't organise a party. In fact, John thought that Sherlock would rather spend time with John than a party with tens of thousands of people. While Sherlock was out, he busied around the house cleaning and organising and planning where everything was located. He had told Sherlock to go for a walk in the park, walk around London, play the violin on the streets, anything to keep him occupied. He was almost done, the table laid neatly, the cutlery and dinnerware not a centimetre in difference, the delicious smell of cooking chicken wafting through the house.

"Shit." he whipered to himself, as if Sherlock could hear. "Shit, the cake."

He remembered Sherlock saying something about liking vanilla cake, with minimal icing. He left a newspaper he was reading on the stairs and tripped out into the sunshine. Brushing off his jumper, he hailed a cab and was in wide search of a vanilla cake. He couldn't wait to see Sherlocks face, just the two of them. It would be the happiest night o his life. After all this planning, he was pretty proud of himself.

John texted Sherlock to tell him, that if he were to come home, he would be out, doing errands. Hopefully, he wouldn't suspect much, being Sherlock Holmes and all. He sent him a text saying:

"I'm out so the house is empty. x"

He just hoped he wouldn't touch the oven or notice the plates. But then again he hardly ever went inside the kitchen, unless it was for tea. And that was usually only in the morning.

||SHERLOCK||

The tri tone sound of his phone, told him he had a message. He turned on his phone and there was a message from John about being out. He smiled sadly and texted John:

"okay on my way home now
S.H"

He hailed a cab and went back to 221b baker St. As he walked into the flat he sharply inhaled, there was the faint smell of John and his vanilla, of chicken and of them. He walked up the stairs, it creaking as usual, and he smiled at that. It was more of a small, sad smile. Once he entered the flat, he realised everything had been dusted and cleaned and straightened. It looked a lot nicer without all the books and newspapers littering the floor, and the empty mugs on the coffee table.

He walked to his room and sat cross legged on the floor. He could hear the jingle of John's keys at the front door. In his hand he held a piece of expensive notepaper and a pen. Looking down at the paper he began to write. Tears fell onto the page, as he wrote, the ink began smudge. He placed the note on his desk and opened one of his drawers.

John's foot steps sounded at his door. "Sherlock?" he called.

Sherlock made his head fall onto the desk as he sobbed, clutching his body.

"Sherlock, are you oka- OPEN THIS DOOR!"

Sherlock looked over at his bedroom door, in which was locked to the picture of him and John on his mantelpiece to the drawer below him. He pulled out the object in the drawer, tears still running down his face.

"I'm afraid John. What if I can't love you when I'm gone?"

John was still pounding at the door, the dull thumps where his shoe hit the wooden door.

"sherl...SHERLOCKFUCKINGsherlockno!" he screamed.

"Oh god." he sobbed, "I'm so sorry John."