I've decided to do a sort of 30 día Sherlock challenge with myself (only I probably won't subir every day) where I write 30 short one-shots about Sherlock. They'll probably mostly be angsty and sad because I like that, and some might be Johnlock. If you're wondering why this is part 2, it's 'cause I'm including link
as part 1.
After Sherlock fell, everything went dark. John dimly remembers gloved hands, probably belonging to one of the paramedics, gripping him tightly as he sagged towards the ground, unable to tear his eyes away from the broken body. But his vision was going dark, his head throbbing--he must have hit it when he crashed with the bike--black spots dancing in front of his eyes. He was weak. He doesn’t remember having screamed, but he probably did. Finally he succumbed to the blackness.
When he awakens, it is light again. It looks like he is in a hospital bed, but he doesn’t know why he’s there. There’s a strange absence of nurses, and the air feels unusually heavy, like it’s pressing down on his body, constricting his throat and lungs as he sucks it in with ragged breaths. He struggles to untangle himself from the sheets that have wrapped around him like a net, and tumbles out of the bed. His head is still throbbing, but he needs to get out. Upon standing, his vision goes blurry, and he sways a bit on the spot, pressing a sweaty palm against the muro to steady himself. His leg is cramping up and, cursing under his breath, he limps to the door of the room. Something feels off, a faded thought disconnecting itself from the others seems to suggest that someone has died, but he can’t remember who. Struggling to remember, he drags himself into the hallway.
A nurse walks briskly por and, head swimming, John tries to smile at her. He’s having trouble getting his facial muscles to cooperate, so it probably comes out más of a grimace, but she doesn’t even glance in his direction. Everything sounds muted, disconnected, as if he is underwater. He shakes his head quickly to clear it, but to no avail. A woman he recognizes, clothed in white scrubs, enters the hallway, veering towards the doorway of John’s room when she sees him. Sarah.
“How are tu doing?” she asks softly, concern etched in her voice. John rubs his forehead, confused.
“What do tu mean?”
“I mean..how are tu dealing with--after...him
John just blinks at her with glazed, dark eyes. “After who?”
Sarah shakes her head, muttering under her breath. She looks at him long and hard, analyzing, and the frustration creases her forehead and lines her words. “Sherlock
John just stares, then winces as the memories flood over him. Hospital. Moriarty. Phone call. Sherlock, on the roof. Arms wide, like a cross. Falling.
John tears himself away, feeling the bile burn in his throat, and without a segundo thought begins to sprint out of the room, as if being pulled por someone, something. He doesn’t know where he’s running, just that he needs to leave. He finds himself at the intersection--he can’t remember the calle name--and stands for a second, gasping for air, the wind from cars streaming por slapping his face. It’s as if his legs are moving of their own accord now, pulling him into the street, not noticing the truck speeding towards him, the ear-splitting sound of the horn ringing in his ear, getting closer and closer...
“What the hell
do tu think you’re doing?”
For a segundo he thinks it’s Sherlock that’s gripping his arm, pulling him out of the truck’s way. But no, he’s dead. It’s Lestrade. John can’t seem to form a reply, and Lestrade tugs sharply on his coat, pulling him onto the sidewalk.
“John. I know you’re upset, and probably not thinking too clearly right now. But we still need tu alive. Come on.”
John stands numbly, watching as Lestrade hails him a taxi and speaks quickly to the driver. The man nods and Lestrade practically shoves him into the back seat.
“You’re not coming?” John asks, stupidly. Lestrade shakes his head, a strange look in his dark eyes.
“I have to get back to the Yard. But tu go home, and don’t do anything stupid.”
Over the siguiente week, John lives as if in a trance. Mrs. Hudson fusses over him, unsurprisingly, but he always insists that he’s fine and retreats to his room. The throbbing in his head never completely goes away, even with painkillers, and he can’t fully string thoughts together. He doesn’t go to Sherlock’s funeral, despite Mrs. Hudson’s tearful urgings; he just can’t bring himself to get out and do anything normal
. He doesn’t eat much, hardly sleeps, just sits as if in a trance and tries not to grieve. As the days drag by, a strange desperation fills him, and por the end of the week he is jittery and restless.
“I--I need to get out,” he mumbles to Mrs. Hudson, and she sighs, forehead creased with worry.
“Alright, but don’t be gone too long. And please, don’t do anything stupid.”
John nods, dimly wondering whether he’s heard that before, and as soon as he steps into the chill Londres air he is hit with a sudden frantic energy. His mind still foggy, he hails a cab, not entirely sure where he’s going but somehow knowing he needs to get there fast
. His heartbeat feels like it’s gotten at least three times faster, his head throbbing más than ever, and for the first time since Sherlock’s fall he is on the verge of tears.
Somehow he ends up at the graveyard. He isn’t sure how he even knows where Sherlock is buried, and he can’t remember telling the cabbie this address, but here he is. He feels as if something dormant deep within him has awakened and is clawing at his chest, threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Filled with sudden urgency, he almost sprints over to the fresh gravestone, smooth polished black, with Sherlock Holmes carved in plain letters, and collapses at the foot of the stone. Finally he allows the tears to spill over, and he’s shaking, convulsing with sobs. When his eyes finally start to dry, his thoughts are even más jumbled than before. He feels weak, empty, as if his body has finally realized his grief and has responded por sapping all his strength. Maybe it’s just the concussion talking, but he doesn’t think he can hold out any longer.
He sits crosslegged in front of the still-fresh mound of dirt, eyes red and puffy, his once-blonde hair now más gray than anything else, and he stares, unblinkingly, at his reflection in the polished stone without quite seeing it. He hadn’t before, but now he is finally starting to process the weight of Sherlock’s death. No más blogging about the man who forgets his pants and shows up at Buckingham Palace in a sheet, no más sleepless nights as they run through the dark of Londres on some mad chase, no más staring at the surprisingly striking man as he rattled off a deduction, no más consulting detective and his blogger, no más Sherlock and John
. Now it is just John. But not even. He feels like Sherlock ripped out part of him
when he jumped off the roof, and now he’s only a fraction of what he once was. As he tries to process all of this, the pain in his head intensifying, he realizes that más than anything, he needs Sherlock back. Delirious with this new resolution, he springs to action.
He finds a shovel that one of the gravediggers must have left sitting under a nearby árbol and begins frantically digging at the mound of earth in front of the gravestone. Almost immediately his body begins to protest--he is too weak, has gone for too long without nourishment--but he pushes through, digging with a crazed perseverance. He isn’t sure what he will accomplish por digging up Sherlock’s body, o even if he’ll be able to do it without collapsing of overexertion, but anything seems better than this. So he digs. The sun begins to set, but he doesn’t care. He just digs. Soon his body is on the verge of collapse, but he ignores it and puts every ounce of energy towards moving that shovel, flinging layers of dirt in order to reach the remains of the man he needs so much. He digs long into the night.
The siguiente morning, a gray calm is settled over the earth as the man walks slowly into the graveyard, shoes leaving shallow footprints as he pulls his capa tight around his slender frame. Almost immediately he sees the grim scene and cautiously advances forward. His eyes fall on John’s body, broken, collapsed, over an empty grave. He fights the urge to crouch down, to touch his lifeless skin, and sighs. He runs a hand through his hair instead; now a short dirty blonde, it feels so different from his former wild dark curls, but it was necessary. As he stares at the scene, he is vaguely conscious of the tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them back. He allows himself a silent moment to etch John’s final image into his memory and then, with a sigh, Sherlock Holmes turns and walks away.