Maybe there’s something you’re afraid to say, or someone you’re afraid to love, or somewhere you’re afraid to go. It’s gonna hurt, it’s gonna hurt because it matters.
- John Green
A/N- Thank you JohnIsSherlocked for the idea of sending John and Sherlock to Notre Dame! (Also thank you for being such an amazing role-player with me!)
Sherlock
“Here we are,” I smiled at John as we stepped into the magnificent cathedral, ensuring that the flash on my camera was off and gazing up at the beautiful stained windows and the arched ceiling.
“It’s beautiful…” he whispered- everyone’s voice was hushed, but combined it sounded like a loud hum echoing throughout the building.
“It has to be- it took 182 years to build, with lots of added construction work following it…”
“Thank you, Paris encyclopaedia,” he chuckled, squeezing my hand as we continued to walk through the massive structure, marvelling at the intricate detail of it all and reading the facts set out on stands. Suddenly, in one of the windows, a silhouette of a worker could be seen walking.
“John. Look,” I tapped his shoulder, and nodded up towards the window where the figure could still be seen.
“Oh my goodness,” he whispered. “It’s Quasimodo!” (A/N- This actually happened to me whilst I was there.) We both laughed quietly to ourselves. “How did you find the book, by the way?” He asked me.
“Brilliant, of course, but tragic,” I winced. “I think the entire literary world was taking a stab at my sentiment yesterday,” John looked at me sympathetically and stroked my hand lightly with his fingers.
“Don’t worry, love, you can read something happier next,” he lifted himself up on tip-toes and kissed my cheek briefly, before we continued to look around, looking at the amazing history that lay before us, above us and below our feet.
About half an hour later, we found ourselves standing in front of a row of flickering candles, people bowing their heads in front of their pale light, and using matches to light them whilst leaving donations in the box beside them.
Upon seeing these, I bit back a tear as slight smell of smoke filled my nostrils, frozen in time to the day so long ago we’d received that news at our doorstep, and everything had crashed downwards since then- the story-telling left the household, the sound of tinkling laughter from the study no longer filling the now cold corridors…
“Sherlock…” I felt a hand on my shoulder, pulling me out of my bubble of conflictions. “… Are you okay?”
I shook my head to draw myself out of it, staring at the row of candles ahead of us. “Yeah…” I turned to him and tried to put a smile on- he reached into his pocket to retrieve something- a few euros. John gently lifted my palm, placed the euros on top of it and closed my fingers around them for me.
“Light one,” he smiled, but sadly, knowing what I was feeling. I nodded in thanks, hanging my head slightly as I slipped the donation into the box, biting my lip as I took a candle and lit it, placing it on a row amongst the others.
My candle still burns for you, Dad, I thought, hoping that though it was probably quite impossible, he’d hear me- then, turning back to my husband, I saw he was lighting one too.
I knew this was for his mother, who’d very sadly died of cancer several years before he’d left to serve in the war- his father was still alive, but he didn’t really… Well…
When John had lit the candle, I saw a few silent words roll from his lips as he too tried to stop himself from shedding a tear- reaching my hand out, I wrapped it around his waist and moved closer to him.
YOU ARE READING
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