White Noise

Till Death Do Us Part

"Are you eating then? Drinking?" John wondered. Sherlock just laughed, looking over at him with a wink.
"Oh I'm drinking plenty." He assured. John sighed, letting his head fall against the wall as Sherlock observed their strainer with much curiosity.
"Are you drunk Sherlock?" John wondered, finally placing Sherlock's odd behavior to intoxication.
"High." Sherlock corrected with a bit of a carefree smile.
"So that's what this is then? It's your way of mourning Victor, all while getting free food?" John wondered, laughing to himself. What more could he have expected? Victor's loss had seeped into every aspect of his life, it would seem as though his expectations had been tainted as well. Sherlock didn't love John, no; he loved the memory of Victor, even though it caused him insufferable pain.
"I have to wonder, John, I have to wonder what your connection in all of this is..." Sherlock muttered, spinning on his heel and nearly tumbling into the table. He took another bite of his apple, so that gave John a moment to try to think of his response to Sherlock's question.
"Connection to what exactly?" John wondered with a curious look. He hoped Sherlock couldn't sense guilt, because he was sure he was reeking of it at the moment.
"To Victor's death, to his apparent suicide. It is altogether suspicious, and I couldn't think of any other soul on earth who would dare touch a hair on his beautiful head." Sherlock whispered, walking closer to John all while keeping a minimum safe distance.
"He killed himself Sherlock, you can't blame me for what he did himself." John snapped defensively.
"Oh but on the contrary, the coroner said that some of the markings on his skin were suspicious, scratches, they said, on his eyelids. As though eh had been fighting." Sherlock pointed out with an almost excited gleam in his eyes. John simply shook his head, acting as though this were all just a misunderstanding, as if he were sure Sherlock was making this all up as he went.
"No my dearest Sherlock, I had nothing to do with it. Maybe he had a little wrestle with his cat." John suggested.
"He doesn't have a cat." Sherlock corrected almost too quickly.
"Maybe you did it, and just didn't notice. Who knows how wild you two get? How drunk?" John whispered back. Sherlock made a noise not unlike a growl, looking as though he wanted to take a step closer but ultimately decided against it.
"Don't insult his memory with things you don't know. He loved me." Sherlock insisted.
"And I don't?" John snapped back. Sherlock just laughed, his lips curling into an amused smile.
"Well, the way you treat me, I'd say not. He would never dare lay a hand on me, never." Sherlock insisted.
"That was a mistake; you know it was a mistake!" John defended loudly.
"And yet I don't doubt you'd do it again, I don't doubt you'd use your strength against me when you don't get what you want?" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exclamation. John was silent; he knew that he couldn't make any promises, purely because he didn't want to break them.
"Where is your bathroom?" Sherlock wondered suddenly. John gave him a look of confusion, and yet Sherlock just raised his eyebrows, tossing his half eaten apple towards the direction of the sink, but in the end it simply bounced off the counter and landed on the floor.
"Why?" John wondered stupidly.
"Because I need to wash my hair...why do you think?!" Sherlock demanded.
"Upstairs, first door on the right." John muttered thoughtlessly. Sherlock just smiled at him, storming past and climbing up the stairs with surprising speed for a man of his health. John just sighed, leaning back against the wall of the kitchen and letting his head fall back. He could feel the drumbeat returning, and yet he was trying to stifle it, he knew that there was still some hope for Sherlock's visit, although it obviously wasn't going well. Sherlock seemed to have other things on his mind, certainly not love and affection, more like vengeance and interrogation. But John still tried to hold out hope that maybe he still had feelings, buried deep down in that complicated heart of his. Oh this was all just so dreadful, what was he supposed to do if Sherlock wouldn't take him back? Who was he supposed to love if Sherlock wouldn't accept him for the flawed human being he most obviously was? John craved Sherlock so badly that it almost hurt him, he needed that man more than anything else in the world, but it appeared as though Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him anymore. It seemed as though Sherlock thought of him nothing more than a criminal, a crazy man with a heart running astray, and certainly not worth any of his time or affection. No matter, he will learn, he learned once, he most certainly will have to be retaught. John's thoughts, however far away they were headed, were pulled back almost as soon as he heard a scream, a feminine scream, one that most certainly didn't belong to Sherlock. His blood ran cold, remembering that Sherlock wasn't the only one he had left upstairs... John ran as fast as he could towards the staircase, jumping them three at a time and rushing into the bedroom. Of course, of course there was Sherlock, standing over the chair in which Mary was tied, trying haphazardly to stuff the handkerchief back into her mouth to stifle the screaming. She was struggling against her bonds, shaking the feeble chair back and forth and screaming through her stuffed mouth, screaming for help that certainly wouldn't come from the broken man standing before her. Her screams were only noisier when added to the pounding and whining coming from the locked closet that held Rosie, her little fists pounding upon the door and crying for help while Sherlock only turned and stared in horror. John dove towards the bed, reaching under the mattress and feeling around until finally his fingers clasped over the handle of a pistol. He pulled it out determinedly and held it straight at Sherlock, making sure the safety was still on, of course. Because as inopportune as Sherlock's discovery had been, John would never dare take the life of such a specimen.
"You're not supposed to be in here." John said obviously, moving towards the door and slamming it shut with his foot, keeping the gun fixed on Sherlock with absolutely no intentions of pulling the trigger. Sherlock was, if possible, even paler, his lips struggling to form words as he held his trembling hands up in surrender.
"John I..." he muttered, but his words seemed to fail him, and he fell silent again. Mary's eyes not only read of fear but of confusion, she was staring at Sherlock, obviously trying to figure out just who he was and what he was doing in her house. John, however, couldn't care less about Mary. She would be dealt with in time; all he needed was a promise, a promise from Sherlock that he would take him when his old life was shattered at his feet.
"Sherlock, meet Mary, my wife." John said rather awkwardly, turning the gun towards Mary, to which she only struggled harder, tears pouring out of her terrified eyes, yet she could do nothing but stare. Sherlock was horrified, but he looked as though he was trying to figure out something, anything he could do in this situation. He didn't know that John was too weak to shoot him, he was scared...vulnerable.
"Why did you do this?" Sherlock whispered in a trembling voice, staying put next to Mary's chair, as though his presence would do anything to protect her.
"Because I don't need them anymore. I don't want them anymore. Not when I have you." John spat, his voice trembling as he tried to speak over the pounding in his head. It seemed as though the shadows that had invaded his head were starting to knock around once more.
"Yes. Yes." Sherlock said in a struggled sort of laugh. "Yes of course."
"But I can't do anything Sherlock, not yet." John insisted, his fingers shaking as he kept the point of the gun aimed at the heart he so desperately tried to gain the approval of.
"No you can't." Sherlock agreed, even though he had no idea what John was talking about. He was being smart, cooperative, as if that was going to help him at all.
"I LOVE YOU!" John screamed desperately, his voice shaking the pictures that hung on the walls. Mary gave a little squeak of confusion, looking between her husband and Sherlock, as though she hadn't predicted this already.
"Yes I know, Doctor...John. I know." Sherlock agreed in a calm voice.
"And I need your...your word. I need to be sure that if I destroy my old life I'll have a new one waiting for me. You love me Sherlock; I know you do, now please, just tell me!" John demanded, his face clenched in anger and his heart beating along to the pulse in his skull. Sherlock thought for a moment, John could tell that his eyes were thoughtful, and soon a smile crept onto his face, a fake smile of course, the one John wore when he needed to. And yet it pleased him to finally see that worn, pale face smile again. Smile because of him. Happiness, because of him.
"Yes of course, of course John, I love you." Sherlock breathed.
"And you'll love me still?" John whispered, almost not believing the words that had been uttered out of Sherlock's beautiful lips. So it was true then, he had known all along, there was love buried deep, and all he had to do to retrieve it was wave a gun around.
"I'll love you always." Sherlock assured, slowly lowering his arms and taking a step closer. John couldn't do anything of course, why wouldn't he want Sherlock to come closer, why would he ever want Sherlock to keep his distance? He kept the gun fixed on Sherlock's heart, and yet he did nothing to prevent the man from creeping ever closer, all while being watched by the fearful eyes of his disgusting wife, the very same that would be disposed of shortly.
"Do you believe me?" Sherlock wondered in a soft voice, coming closer with a soft look in his beautiful features.
"Why should I doubt you? I knew that you loved me, I've known it all along." John assured.
"And yet you let me doubt it myself? You let me forget?" Sherlock wondered, laughing as though that were some absurd idea. John quivered in excitement as Sherlock got closer and closer, his fingers finally running up John's arm and trailing around his chin. John smiled, keeping the gun level, pointing now at an empty space in the wall.
"You were stubborn." John insisted, talking as though he actually thought Sherlock had forgot. But what could he do, what could he only do, when the thing he wanted most in this world was so obtainable?
"Yes I was, my love, oh yes I was." Sherlock agreed in a whisper, tilting John's head up ever so slightly with his cold fingers at his chin, a smile worked onto his features so carefully, so lovingly. For a moment John didn't doubt his intentions, for a moment, as Sherlock's lips hovered closer to his, John was actually allowing himself to think that this was all legitimate emotions, that these feelings that he felt were real. And yet, almost as soon as he could feel Sherlock's breath upon his face, he felt the gun twist painfully out of his grasp, wrenched out by the very hand that was supposed to be caressing him. Sherlock flew back, holding the gun and brandishing it at John powerfully.
"Now stay back!" he demanded, moving towards Mary's chair as if he was going to protect her. John doubted Sherlock knew anything about guns simply by the way he held the weapon, so clumsily in his hands, so inexperienced. So he sincerely doubted that he would know to switch the safety off. John just laughed, shaking his head and stepping closer.
"Did you mean it?" John wondered carelessly, his head lolling on his neck for a moment before returning his gaze to where it rightfully lay, on Sherlock Holmes.
"I'll shoot you, you son of a b*tch, now stay back! STAY BACK!" Sherlock exclaimed again, waving the gun threateningly. And yet John took a step forward, and the man with the gun stepped back, as if he was afraid.
"Did you mean it when you said you loved me?" John demanded once more, his voice shaking in anger, in unknown control.
"Of course not, I've said it before, you disgust me!" Sherlock exclaimed defensively. John took another step forward, and he heard Sherlock gasp, he watched him close his eyes, and heard that telltale click. So he would've shot him, he would've killed him. Except, that didn't really work out, did it? John just smiled triumphantly, watching as Sherlock slowly opened his eyes in realization, looking down on the seemingly useless weapon in his hand. He had no idea what it's malfunction might be, he had no idea what he was doing wrong. Except his crestfallen look assured John that he wouldn't be a problem anymore. Maybe he would go back to being loving, being gentle, and trying to win his life back with kisses. Little did he know, John would never hurt him.
"Oh no." John muttered carelessly, pouting a little bit as he watched Sherlock's expression turn from confidence to pure fear. Sherlock yelped and quickly threw the gun away, and in an instant he flung himself upon John, grabbing him around the throat and pulling him to the ground with the dominance that John remembered well. This was his last resort, it would seem, but it was effective nonetheless. John wasn't unable to fight back, but he didn't feel the need to. He could only laugh as Sherlock flung him upon the carpet, screaming as loudly as he could while his bony hands wrapped so tightly around John's throat. John could only laugh with the breath he couldn't supply, his hands feeling weakly around Sherlock's face, his fingers playing softly against his skin, a smile twisting upon his blue lips as he stared up into the face of the man he so loved. This was how he wished to die, by the hands of Sherlock Holmes, by the fierce touch of the man he owed his entire life to. Oh it was a joyous occasion, feeling his life slipping away, hearing the screams mixed in the air between Sherlock, Mary, and Rosie. All screaming on his behalf. If Sherlock wouldn't take his love then surely he should be allowed to take his life, the strength that should be unavailable to a man of his health seeping into John's neck, the same deathly feeling that had fallen on Victor in his last moments. How appropriate, how ghastly! Oh it was a full circle, was it not? John knew that the moment his breath left his lips that he wouldn't have to worry about his wife, or his lover who had ceased to care for him, he wouldn't need to worry about the infinite loop of nothingness because his very existence would be stifled out by the beautiful, careful hands of the one he so desperately loved. And if there was ever a last sight, if there was ever a last glance at the world as it turned black, John was ever so happy that his could be of Sherlock Holmes. The very beautiful Sherlock Holmes. 

A/N: Okay to  be honest this is probably my favorite story of mine, and now it's over, and now I'm sad. I thought it would be pretty different from all the rest of my stories if Sherlock didn't love John back, which was the case here. The thing is that poor guy pretended to be all confident but he was pretty emotionally wounded, he never loved anyone accept Victor and Victor only liked him for his looks. They had a pretty shaky relationship as well.  I think it's either this or Secretly I Think You Knew tied for my favorites, but I'm not sure. It's pretty close. None the less I hope you all liked it as well, and following this is a new story that will probably be unlike anything you've ever read, so I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!