Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.
Author’s Note: I’m sorry. I really am. Don’t hate me.
A World Without You
Time paused. John was acutely aware of every breath, of every movement. The silver-haired DI was looking at him, an expression filled with pity, of sorrow.
“No.” Lestrade gave a small half-smile.
“John, there is no-one there.” John shook his head.
“No. No. Sherlock’s there.” He turned to look at the detective, shock plastered across his face.
Sherlock did nothing.
“Sher... Sherlock...” John breathed, his voice catching. “Please...”
“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock moved towards John, pain laced in his eyes. John stepped backwards.
“Sherlock. Don’t.”
“John, please.” Sherlock sounded heartbroken, pained. “Please.”
“DON’T PLEASE ME!” John roared. The police officers still left jumped, shock in their faces.
“John...” Sherlock whispered. John put his hands over his ears.
“No. No no no you’re not there why aren’t you there?” John looked panicked, furious. His eyes widened.
“You... you’re... you’re fading. You’re fading Sherlock.” His hands fell, hanging loosely. Sherlock held up a hand. His pale complexion was nothing more than ashen, his dark curls turning to grey.
“No Sherlock. Sherlock. Look at me. Stay with me.” John grabbed Sherlock’s face, watching tears tracking their way down the milky glass cheeks.
“John, I don’t want to go.” John screwed up his eyes.
“I know, Sherlock, I know.”
“I want to stay with you.”
“I want you to stay.” John wiped away a tear from Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Don’t go.”
“John.” Sherlock laughed, his voice hoarse. “I love you.” John smiled, his vision blurring.
“I love you too, Sherlock. I love you I love you I love you.” John’s voice faded out. He felt a kiss on his forehead. He looked up, to catch a glimpse of the brilliant man, his Sherlock. His hands fell to his sides.
He wasn’t there.
Sherlock.
Sherlock, come back. I need you. I don’t want to be without you. Sherlock, please. Don’t leave me.
He raised his arm, dragging it across his face, trying to scrub away the hot tears.
“John.” A voice sounded behind him, too high, not Sherlock’s. “John.” The voice sounded sorry, compassionate. He heard pity.
He didn’t want anyone’s pity. He just wanted Sherlock.
John stalked out of the room, ignoring the protests, ignoring the cries of “John!” He needed to breath fresh air, to feel wind on his face, to feel something.
That was something no-one could deny him.
o0o
He arrived in Hyde Park, hands shoved in pockets, eyes cast towards the skies. He passed people, families, groups. Adults, elderly, students, children. All with lives, with hopes, with people to care. He’d had that once. All of that fell off a rooftop, landing on the concrete, shattering his world, not just his best friend’s skull.
Can you hear me Sherlock? Do you understand? Because listen to this.
There is no world without you in it.
He sat down on bench, tattered, weatherworn. A Daily Mail lay beside him, fluttering in the wind. He picked it up, scanning the headline.
The Avengers succeed again!
Bloody Avengers. They were everywhere. Most papers had an Avengers section. The world had gone crazy when they found out that Clint Barton and one of the Avengers handlers, Coulson, had been seeing each other for years. It had been splashed everywhere. It had been right after Sherlock’s fall. Headlines of The fall of a Genius turned into The Cellist in Portland – Clint Barton.
Bloody superheroes. They had nothing, nothing, on Sherlock. Sherlock was brilliant. He was a genius. Yes, they had Tony Stark. But the man was a jackass. Sherlock didn’t need a fancy suit. He didn’t need any of that. He just needed to be himself.
It had driven him to his death. All those supposed super people, and they were still alive. And Sherlock was dead. His Sherlock.
Could they stop that? Would they even try?
A sob bubbled up in John’s throat, choking him. Suffocating.
He heaved himself off the bench, stumbling slightly on the path. He wandered aimlessly, staring ahead, staring at nothing. He eventually pulled himself to a stop, standing on a secluded piece of grass. He felt his phone go off, he ignored it. They’d just want to know where he was, take him home. Like a naughty child that got lost.
John put a hand round to his back, and felt the metal of his pistol. He smiled.
I said there was no world that didn’t have you in it. Well, shall we put that to the test?
He looked up into the darkening sky. Images flashed in his mind.
He and Harry running round their back garden, he was 5, she was 8. Winning a science prize at school, his parents looked so proud. He got accepted into University, he got his letter, he was going to be a doctor. Mucking around with the boys in Afghanistan, they were laughing so hard, they almost forgot to breath. Getting shot, thinking that no-one was coming for him. Returning to England, moping around. Meeting Sherlock for the first time. Their ‘date’ at Angelo’s. Their first encounter with Moriarty at the pool side. John being really jealous of Irene Adler. Going to Baskerville. Thinking he was going to be eaten by a mutant dog. Moriarty in court. Sherlock falling. Sherlock falling. John sitting on a rooftop, mumbling about ghosts. Lestrade and Mycroft, still putting up with him. Sherlock coming back. Their first kiss. Lying with Sherlock in bed in the morning light. Sherlock at Stonehenge, twirling about, his scarf and coat flailing. Sherlock fading underneath his fingertips. That last “I love you.”
John laughed, long and clear. He gazed around at the landscape, enthralled by the sudden beauty. He took out his pistol, and placed it over an artery. He saw a dark figure walk towards him, stilling suddenly.
“Goodbye Sherlock.” He whispered, letting the wind carry his words. He pulled the trigger.
He fell towards the ground, hitting it with force. He could feel his hand being quickly coated in a thick liquid. Was it staining his jumper? Strong hands were suddenly underneath his neck, pulling him towards a body.
“John? John? Talk to me!” The voice sounded frantic, desperate. He felt tears drop onto his face. He smiled up into the face.
“Tell him...” He choked off.
“Tell who? Tell who John?” The voice soothed him.
“Tell Sherlock... Tell Sherlock I love him.” He heard a sharp intake of breath.
“I will. I will, don’t worry.” The voice sounded broken. Heartbroken. John smiled.
“He loves you too, John. He loves you too.” Were the last words he remembers hearing.
He slowly closed his eyes, and let darkness take him for the last time.
