These Days

Father of the Year

                  

Sherlock POV. Sherlock wanted to hug the body as well, he wanted to sob at John's side, to be the one to personally send Mary to Hell where she belonged, but it seemed like all he could do was stand there in awe, to sink back onto the floor and blink away the streaming flow of tears. John was dead; the one man he had willingly loved had just been shot straight through the heart. The one man Sherlock couldn't live without, he was just about to marry, he had been cruelly ripped out of Sherlock's hands just with one small bullet. It seemed like he sat there for hours, and then there were blinking blue and red lights through the curtains, but he didn't hear the sirens. He was pulled to his feet and into a chair by unseen hands, blurred faces crying over him and assuring him that everything would be okay. But he just sat in the chair, he stared at nothing but the pooling tears in his eyes, and he felt nothing but his heart being slowly shredded into unreplaceable pieces. John was dead, and it was all his fault. Mrs. Hudson appeared, from where he had no idea. Just the fact that she got the address was a mystery in itself.
"Come on Sherlock, we should go." She decided, trying to help Sherlock out of the chair. He wanted to protest, of course he couldn't leave John, he couldn't leave the black bag that now sat on the floor in the office. But he let his limb body be carried along by Mrs. Hudson, even though his legs wouldn't work he was still of the chair and out the door. No one said goodbye, not one cop stopped them, there were plenty of witnesses already, but they would come. They needed the firsthand account from the man who might as well have pulled the trigger himself. Why hadn't he had rushed at Mary and not at the wall? He saw the gun, he saw the murderous glare, if he had simply jumped in front of her or knocked the weapon off its course the slightest, it might not have hit his heart, John might still be alive... He pretty much fell into the backseat of the car, trying to shield his vision from the multiple cop cars and ambulances that were parked on the snow covered lawn. The holiday lights were still on, the wreath still hung on the door and the Christmas music was still plating. But it wasn't the same, nothing was the same in that house and it never will be again, there was a hole in the family, there was a hole in their life that only John could fill, but he can't fill it anymore.
"Just sit tight Sherlock, it'll all be alright." Mrs. Hudson assured, closing the door and letting Sherlock shakily fall down into the car door, his head wobbling slightly against the window as the engine started. They drove all the way back home, it felt like a million miles but it also felt like a short block away. Sherlock got out of the car himself, tears still streaming weakly from his eyes. Before he knew it he'd be dehydrated.
"Come on dear, let's go inside." Mrs. Hudson decided, steering Sherlock into the house and letting him sit down in her living room. "I'll go get you a cup of hot chocolate." Mrs. Hudson walked away, leaving Sherlock to sit in the darkness and stare blankly. Maybe he was in shock, maybe he was just devastated, either way he couldn't find the strength to do anything but sit and replay everything that he could've done to save John himself. Maybe he was supposed to be a hero, but this isn't a movie, it's not some stupid super hero movie where people are able to react in the heroic way. In real life people die, the people closest to you, and no matter how many times you tell yourself over and over that it only happened to other people, never to yourself, then you had to open your eyes and watch as the only person you ever loved was gunned down by his own wife. Well, not wife, not anymore. Sherlock looked at the golden band on his finger, still shiny and new, but now with specks of blood on it, John's blood. Apparently the gunshot was messier than Sherlock had thought.
"Here you are dear." Mrs. Hudson said, swooping down and placing a cup of steaming hot chocolate on the glass coffee table in front of him. Sherlock made no move to take it, anything he tried to eat or drink would probably come up as vomit sooner or later.
"Don't say I told you so." Sherlock muttered, pulling his legs up to his chin and huddling into a little ball in the corner of the couch.
"Never Sherlock, never." Mrs. Hudson assured, sitting next to him and patting his shoulder sympathetically.
"It was all going to work; I knew it was going to work." Sherlock muttered.
"Well, things happen like this, it's out of our control." Mrs. Hudson assured. Sherlock held out his hand for her to see the ring, not bothering to say anything to explain.
"It was all going to be fine." He muttered.
"Oh dear..." Mrs. Hudson muttered, obviously able to connect the dots. "I'm so sorry."
"I should've done something, I should've done anything, I could've prevented..." Sherlock started.
"There was nothing you could do Sherlock, if there had been you would've done it." Mrs. Hudson assured.
"I could've tackled him, I couldn't attacked her, I could've jumped in the way of the bullet, I should've died a hero but instead I'm living with a hallow shell." Sherlock muttered.
"No time for regret, Sherlock I assure you that this was out of your hands. No one actually jumps in front of bullets, no one is fast enough to tackle someone before a bullet hits them, and if you had jumped on her then you'd be dead as well." Mrs. Hudson pointed out.
"It's better than being alive, without him." Sherlock decided.
"No it's not. He was only one person in your life, if you had died then I'd be alone, and your parents would've lost a son..." Mrs. Hudson started.
"John's parents were there, I talked to them before, Hamish watched him get shot, and it's all my fault. Maybe my parents would lose a son, but his family lost a lot more." Sherlock insisted.
"Let's just forget about it for now, I got you a present." She pointed out.
"I can't do this right now, I can't forget about him right now." Sherlock insisted.
"Okay, that's okay, maybe later." Mrs. Hudson decided.
"Can I...can I just be alone?" he asked.
"Oh course dear, why don't you go upstairs and sleep for a while, you need it." Mrs. Hudson insisted. Sherlock nodded weakly, stumbling up the stairs without so much as a good night to Mrs. Hudson. He could almost hear the sirens from where he stood, all coming to respond to the murder he caused. Sherlock went into the bathroom, with the intent of cleaning himself up a bit before he lay down, but the man in the mirror surprised him much more than he was expecting. There was blood speckled over his face and clothes, his cheeks were streaked with tears and his eyes were red. Sherlock's hair was a mess, his shirt still unbuttoned and he looked so tired and so traumatized that he could've been a Walking Dead zombie. So he cleaned himself off, he changed into his pajamas and he lie under the covers, sweating so much that he felt cold, but he needed to fell protected, and the thin sheets did just that. John was dead... Sherlock expected Mary to be hiding in all of the dark corners of the room, prepared to kill him as well, he expected the cops to come breaking down his door, could he be charged with this murder as well? If having an affair was illegal, he could be locked up for the rest of his life. It would be worth it. If John had to suffer for what Sherlock had done, then he should be punished as well, he should be put down or put in prison. He wanted someone to yell at him, to slap him across the face and tell him the truth, that he had been the one who killed his only love. But he was still alone, and the only people that would ever talk to him would be calm and sweet with him, making him hot chocolate and promising that it wasn't his fault. But it was, it was all his fault and he knew it, because deep down inside, Mary had aimed the gun, but Sherlock had pulled the trigger.