How We Unfold (SherlockBBC; Johnlock)

Chapter 11: Hello John

John

We are at Bartholomews. We are bathed in silence. Around us, the late autumn air is still. He is high, towering over the ground. And for a moment, everything is calm. But something changes. Fabric swims in waves of black; the slow, gentle rustle of his coat. Cold wind whistles past him. Our hands are outstretched, grasping for anything. But everything is falling, falling fast. There's no stopping it now, but I try every time. I open my mouth to yell. Speak the magic words to freeze time. Maybe if I plead loud enough. But no sound escapes my lips. Or maybe he just can't hear me. He never does.

Oh God, stop this.

Now it's cold cement. Cracks flooded with the recent rain. And red. It seeps into the grains of the pavement, it paints the muddy water. It blossoms out like an opening bud, begging for light. A sinister twist on a brilliant halo, crowning the head of a fallen angel. And it's all I see. Pale skin and red pavement. The world is fragile. It balances on a beam of cracked glass. I steal my breath in my lungs. One move, and everything shatters. I am an immobile reflection of myself. Everything stands motionless, lifeless stills locked in this hell.

There is no time here. I feel eternity carve into my skin. I soak in it until it's corrupted my entire being. It cracks my bones. It swims in my veins and bloats in my heart. A thickened sludge fills me up like an empty glass. And I know it's him. He can swim in my veins, a heavy wine, until I am drunk. My head grows heavy and suddenly I am falling too. I stumble about, clutching for balance, in fear of this fragile world caving in. But I cannot get that red out of my mind, it has stained me. It takes up permanent residence in my thoughts. I am helpless. Oh God, I tried. With everything I am, I tried. But it never makes a difference.

My movements are frantic now, I'm reaching again. I am on the street, he lies before me. If I can just get to him. If I could just-

John.

The low rhythmic tone of his voice swims in the air. I look for him, my eyes examine his lifeless body. His lips do not move.

John, it's time to wake up now.

I grab for him but I cannot reach, I can never reach him. I'm yelling for him, my voice begs for him to stop; just get up, Sherlock. Just get up. But he does not move. And I am spiraling further away. Everything changes, the hospital is gone, I am no longer on the ground. I am sinking into a great sea.

It is only a dream.

His voice snakes it's way down to me and wraps around my sinking body. He is pulling me from the muddy depths, a pale light illuminates the distant surface. In the gelid water that cocoons my flesh, his voice is warmth.

Wake up, John.

And suddenly my body tears through the surface of the sea and I am rushing through the air until-

My eyes open to a dark room. I am home, in the flat. I am alone. Darkness lies around me. I lie still for a few moments, catching my breath. Sweat beads on my brow and my chest aches. And I am alone.

Sherlock

I refuse to tolerate any further waiting. If I wait any longer the anticipation of it may eat away at me entirely. And I have so little patience, after all. I pace back and forth anxiously in the small room Mycroft reserved for me at his home. It is only mid-afternoon now, but the rain outside has darkened the sky and pours a still coolness into the room through the cracked window. I inhale the damp air slowly, but inside I feel as though I may explode. Inexplicable energy burns in my core, as it usually does when I'm on the hunt, or I've grown bored, or I simply desire something so immediately I cannot contain myself. And I desire this. I desire to confide in my best friend after two long years of separation. I desire to relieve him of his mourning.