Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 24

"If a man has not discovered something he will die for, he isn't fit to live" Martin Luther King Jr.

Sherlock has found something better. He has found something to live for. He has found the only thing worth having in his life, and he intends never to let him go again. He wants smile again. He wants to see his John.

To be able to laugh carelessly, but he craves John's forgiveness. He died for him, and now he'll live for him.

Excitement protrudes from his every pore, the hair on his skin standing on end, he smiles. Just the thought of John brings a brightening light to his otherwise dull eyes.

Lights race past his face, shining and glaring across the car window, reflecting on the dark black sheen of Mycroft's transport. He relishes in the fact he'll see John in mere hours. He bounces his leg impatiently.

Time stalks by like the predator to a prey, and he can hear the sickening noise of Mycroft and Gavin snuggling in the row of seats behind him. His brother whispers something and Lestrade laughs, but it presents itself as a giggle. He can tell that Graham is sitting in Mycroft's lap, and he wrinkles his nose when he hears them kiss.

If he had to be honest, he'd never seen his brother so happy. No matter how much he despised his arrogant behaviour, and the fact he'd never admit it, he liked that he had finally found himself someone to settle down with.

Even if the man couldn't solve his cases to save his life.

If Sherlock had a conscience, it would be John. It would be the stern look he received when something insensitive spilled from his lips in an explanatory rant. It would be the warm smile when he pretended to care for someone's wellbeing. It would be the shy trace of their fingers, inching over to rest together, barely touching. Contentment. John is his anchor, keeping him from floating and fading away. He'd be lost without him. He'd be driftwood, moving through the wind with nowhere to go.

For Sherlock Holmes, love is spelt with the sacred name John.

The busy streets of London came into view, and Sherlock perked up in his seat a little. Worry poked at his brain. What if he doesn't want me? What he doesn't forgive me? He shook his head, determined to halt the negative thoughts raging inside him. Sherlock had no reason to expect forgiveness from John.

He felt the car jolt to a stop and he was thrown from his mind viciously. His heart pounded as the door was opened for him, the automatic response of draining all emotion from his face evident. He set on foot to the floor, the other following shakily. Rain pelts down on his back, cold eating into his bones. Too distracted to pull apart the driver's life story. He stands, running a tremoring hand through his hair.

John is clouding his mind, unfocused, unguarded, and untouchable. His breath stutters as he looks up at the door to their-- John's flat, exactly how he remembers is, if not a little faded. The car drives away behind him, leaving Sherlock there, stranded. No way out now. He has to go forward. He has to confront John. He wants to run, but his feet have other ideas.

They drag him towards the door, a shaking hand already reaching for the handle, breath shallow. He breathes out and opens the door soundlessly; dust floating downstairs. A knot asserts itself in his throat as he presses one foot to the first stair, making it creak at the intrusion. He holds his breath, but hears nothing, so he brings his other step to meet the next stair. Lonely. The thought pushes its way into his mind as he takes the next two steps. Heartless. He shakes his head, erasing the thought like an etch-a-sketch.

Stitching in his heart slowly undoing. The next steps come easily for him, only stumbling once, but quickly regaining his footing. He lingered outside of the door, fingers twitching and breath uneven. He closed his eyes, and they ached, his hand pushing against the door as it creaked open.

He opened his eyes. They darted around the room, taking in everything he could, scanning it for John. He frowned, eyes skimming over the dusty furniture, curtains drawn together. He heard a noise in the kitchen, a running tap. "Mrs Hudson? That you? Look, you don't need to keep checking up on me, you know, I'm fi-," he protested, walking into the main room, the words dying on his lips. Sherlock bit his lip, looking at his face hopefully. "Sher-," he breathed, throat hitching.

"Hello, John," Sherlock smiled. John swallowed, his face contorting into anger.

"So, um, I'm not dead," Sherlock smiled nervously, hoping to any ludicrous fantasy of a god that his blogger would forgive him. John glared, and opened his mouth slightly, only for a second. He choked on any words he was going to try to say, and rubbed a hand over his face. The glass of water in his hand shook, trembled, the water threatening to slosh over the edge. He starved away a sob and threw the glass at the wall.

The transparent lie sailed towards the slightly faded yellow smiley face, with its mocking painted on curve. It shattered, along with his stronghold, and tears dripped down his face as the water ran on the wallpaper. He took two, long, pent up strides towards the mantel. Swiping both his hands, he threw the peaceful contents off, crockery and pictures smashing. Frames broke, glass cracking.

"You see this?" he yelled at no one, "This is not okay!" he screamed, kicking the bricks surrounding the fireplace. "I am not okay!"

"John, please, just ca-," Sherlock tried, his face prickling with worry. He reached out to touch him, hold him, and offer any sort of comfort he could, but John cowered away.

"No! You-," he took a breath, lowering his voice, "You do not get to talk to me, ever," he hissed. Sherlock huffed out a breath, running a deft hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, John. Please, I-," he begged, his voice falling apart.

"No," John replied curtly, before collapsing into his chair and slamming his fists on the table. Minutes flew past them, not pausing for broken hearts. He stared absently at the far wall, trapped in his chair. A prisoner in his own body. Sherlock counted every second before he heard John's voice again. Creaking footsteps made their way up their stairs, hurried and desperate. Mrs Hudson rattled the doorknob clumsily before erupting into the room.

"John? What's going-," her face paled, and she yelped. "Sherlock?"

John's face dropped, the worry in his brow falling, he stared up at her.

"You can see him, too?" he asked with tear filled eyes.

(End)