"Wanted to and never did"
A short story about Johnlock.
Note: Honey, I'm holme! This time totally obsessed with Johnlock! This fic popped into my head after I gave myself my Snoggletog present (aka Christmas present, the fans of HTTYD will understand) which was watching the finale of Sherlock's season 2. Damn, I cried and screamed so much while watching that…
So I wanted to play a little bit with the idea of how could Sherlock and John get together now that Sherlock is… well, "officially" dead.
- Dialogue - description -. Dialogue continues. (Works pretty much as the quotation marks)
"Thoughts". (Most of the times, if it refers to something spoken out loud I'll tell. Spanish format, because english is not my mother tongue)
Read, enjoy and REVIEW!
Chapter 1: What he wanted to say and never did.
London wasn't the same without him. England wasn't the same without him.
John Watson was once again at the point where it all started: the long sleepless nights at the small old room he lived in when he returned from the war. Except that now he lost his sleep because of a different reason: Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't help but see Sherlock falling to his death every time he closed his eyes, and that vision had him all shocked.
His life wasn't the same without Sherlock. He missed him. He needed him. And he didn't understand why Sherlock had done it.
John knew Sherlock wasn't a fraud of any type. He knew him too well to doubt; even when, for five meaningless seconds, he had doubted at that reporter's house, when "Richard Brook" crossed the door.
Sherlock Holmes was real. All of him had been real. His life, his death…
Again, the terrible vision. John opened his eyes. He wasn't sleeping anyway, and he could think just as well watching his small apartment's ceiling.
"Why did you do it Sherlock?" he thought. He's asked himself that every day since then. Why did Sherlock lie to him in his last minute? Why did Sherlock choose him to be the one who heard his last words? Why did Sherlock…?
John's cell phone rang for the millionth time: a text message.
I know you are sad. I really do.
I want to help.
I'm better now, I promise I can help.
- - - Harry.
John read the message and threw the cell phone away. Harry had been sending him tons of those lately. She probably learned about Sherlock's dead on the TV, she couldn't have read the papers because most of times she was too drunk to be capable of reading. But she said she'd been in rehab, she'd been taking therapy, she was better now.
John didn't believe her anymore.
And yet there she was, texting him all worried as a true sister would do. Harry knew John had lost someone very important in his life, and her interest in helping her brother was genuine.
Problem is John wasn't sure he could be helped. He'd lost too much.
A month after Sherlock's death, John arrived home after a tiring session with his therapist, only to find a more tiring surprise: Harry. She was sitting on the floor right in front of his door, wearing an old coat and flat shoes that would fit a pajama better. Her messy hair was hidden beneath a dusty old cap. Yeah, Harry's appearance had met better days (days of classy high-heeled shoes and fancy dresses), but at least there was something good in her pale face: she looked sober.
In the second she saw John she stood up fast as lightning, proving she was sober because she didn't lose her balance.
- Hi, John – she said. Her voice sounded dry.
- Harriet. What are you doing here?
- You didn't reply my messages, and I wanted to see you.
"But I don't want to see you" thought John. He didn't need to pronounce the words anyway, his cold eyes were more than enough.
- Good evening – he said, monotone, and then tried to slip into his apartment, but Harry didn't let him.
- John, please. Give me a chance. I've been sober for five months now, and I believe that I'm now capable of giving you some support with all this thing about Sherl- - -
- Don't talk of him – said John. He didn't talk about Sherlock to anyone. The sessions with Ella had now turned into a very complex "twenty-questions" sort of game: she asked, John said yes or no, and then she'd ask again. Yet John felt, for the first time in years, that he wanted to talk to Harry; at least he wanted to guide her conversation so she didn't touch that particular sensitive string of him -. You look fatal, Harriet.
- It's the abstinence; my therapist says it's normal. Part of the process. Do you wanna go out?
- What for?
- To get a drin- - -a coffee…
John frowned and turned his back at Harry, focusing again on his keys and his lock. Harry grabbed his arm.
- It's not like that… You see, my therapist will be there, he drove me here actually, he thinks it would be good for me to be at a place where they sell… well, alcohol, and not to buy a thing. He says it's a test for my strength of will.
John stared at Harriet for a second, noticing she wasn't very far from stuttering when speaking. Harry stuttering, abstinence… That made sense.
- And I – proceeded Harry - thought you could be there so I could prove to you that I don't drink anymore. That's five months, John. I've been preparing this for you and Clara for five months. Please.
Maybe it was because John was depressed, maybe he just wanted to talk to someone who was suffering as much as him. John never knew for sure why, but he accepted Harry's invitation, and accompanied her and her therapist to a pub.
Harry's therapist sat at a different table, not very far, to give the siblings a bit of privacy.
At the beginning everything was uncomfortable and quiet, both of them staring into different directions, but John felt open to chat after the third time the waiter went to their table to take their orders and Harry said she wouldn't take anything.
- But if you want something, I'll pay. Let me invite you dinner this time – she said.
- Are you sure you want to do that? I don't want dinner, I just want… a beer.
Harry swallowed, closing her eyes, and then turned to the waiter.
- Bring him a beer. I just want a glass of water – she pronounced every word separately, as if they were different sentences. She was really doing an effort.
The waiter nodded and walked away, before Harry called him again "Wait!" sounding a little bit desperate.
- Ice – she said, then talked to John -. Five months – she repeated, emphasizing the count with her stretched out fingers.
If you have that touching moment plus a pair of beers, plus difficult times, plus a family reencounter, you are likely to get the hugest catharsis ever.
John didn't know how they came to that, but before he realized it he and Harry were talking as if they'd been best friends all of their lives. Harry told her how hard the rehab was for her, but she was ready to do any sacrifice to bring back those she loved. "And that includes you, John". And John… John talked about the war, about the bad days, and, just a little bit, about Sherlock Holmes.
- You know? When Clara and I divorced I felt the world was coming to an end… I know what it is like to lose someone you love, John.
- That's an entirely different matter, Harriet – he looked away and took a sip from his beer. His sister looked at him almost envious, but rapidly regained composure.
- I'm so sorry, Johnny – Harry continued, almost crying -. I know he was dear to you.
- How can you know that?
- I see it in your eyes. I'm not drunk anymore, honey…
John didn't answer. He simply called the waiter once again and ordered another beer for him and another glass of water for his sister.
Hours later Harry's therapist decided it was time for her to go home. He offered John a ride, because he wasn't in the best conditions, but John politely refused and got himself a taxi. Taxis… He couldn't help but feel terribly melancholic. And he wanted to cry. Harry had driven him to the edge of emotional sanity, and now he felt as crying or dying.
- Where to, Mr.? – the driver asked twice before John answered:
- The cemetery.
Minutes later a drunk John Watson was standing in front of Sherlock Holmes' grave.
- Hi – he said, and waited a lot before speaking again, as if he'd been waiting for a reply -. You know, I've been thinking a lot. About you, about us… I believe I haven't told you that I don't understand why you did this. And you know what? I don't! There you go: I don't understand it!
John didn't notice it, but he was doing this exaggerated mimic with his hands, finally expressing himself not only through his words, but through his entire body as well. If Ella had been there, she'd feel either proud of John's outburst or jealous because she didn't get him to do that during a session. Of course in that moment John was thinking of everything but his therapist.
- There are lots of things I didn't tell you, Sherlock – he went on -. Like…like… That thing! The thing you did with your eyes, when you looked at me with that "we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here" face, even when you knew I didn't know. I hated that look. And you know what else I hated? I hated your…obsession with boredom. I mean, come on Sherlock! People don't shoot at walls because they're bored! And they don't stab pigs with a harpoon either. It's not natural! …And what about the corpses in the fridge? A head, Sherlock? A head? I'll never get why you opposed so much to the simple fact of keeping food in the fridge… No, wait, I get it now: normal people keep food in fridges and that's boring. Oh, yeah, and you couldn't be bored…
Why was John this upset? Why did he feel this hurt? Maybe Harry was right, maybe he was now experiencing the devastating feeling of loosing someone you love. John would figure out as he kept yelling to Sherlock's tomb.
- And that other thing! Why did you have to send me away every time you wanted to think? Were my thoughts that annoying for you? Sending me away, leaving me behind, not noticing when I was gone, doing things alone and planning plans of your own… Why did you do all that? Weren't we supposed to be a team? We were a team Sherlock! You knew that! You were just too locked in your mind palace to accept it. And I hated that. I hated you every time you did that… You know what that's called? It's arrogance, Sherlock! Arrogance!
John was screaming louder by the second, for the catharsis was real and he was finally letting out all the mixed feelings he'd been sinking in since the death of Sherlock. Lucky him it was late and the cemetery was empty, except for the dead, of course.
- And you know what else I hated? That thing with the coat! That thing with your cheekbones and your coat collar when you wanted to look mysterious…! No, wait… – John suddenly quit shouting to start talking in regular voice - I actually liked that… And the hat, I liked how upset you went with all those pictures of you wearing the hat. Yes, the hat was stupid, but you made it look good, if you want to know… And the deductions… I liked how you could decipher a life-time by a mere look at a person. That was fascinating. Extraordinary, actually. I told you that, didn't I? …There were plenty of things I did like about you, Sherlock… Why? Why you had to kill yourself like that? Why lie to me, Sherlock? WHY?!
At that point John screamed again at the top of his longs, and then fell to his knees before Sherlock's tomb, his hand reaching to touch the black, cold marble. Now he was crying, quietly, like any man who doesn't want to show his emotions would cry.
- I'll never understand. You weren't a fraud, Sherlock. You were real… You know? My life was never exciting or anything of the sort, it was all a routine. Even at Afghanistan, everything felt as a routine. And then you came, and you just changed my life forever. Well, changing is not accurate, you kind of twisted and blended and… Well, I think you get that even if I don't say it. You always knew how I was feeling…I think I'm the only one you ever got to know how he was feeling, even if you liked pretending emotions were some sort of mistake. They're not that complex, you knew that, maybe you just didn't want the world to know you were human. I asked myself that, sometimes, if you were human. I now know you ar- - -were… Oh, Sherlock...
John sighed heavily and held his head with both hands, trying to diminish the dizziness taking over him. But he wasn't finished, not yet. He had a lot of things to say, and he would even if it was the last thing he ever did.
- I miss you, nothing is the same without you. I have…I have never felt so lonely. And you know what? I just talked to Harriet today, for the first time in years, and I don't feel better. Not at all… I miss the life we had, what we had: our…friendship. It meant a lot to me, and I like to think it meant for you too… And all this feeling, all this…confusion I can't get over. You died and I felt the world would end, I still expect it will, soon. And it's not natural to feel so empty without a person, unless… Well, unless…
John went silent, feeling queer and uncomfortable. Maybe his face was even reddening a bit.
- You won't make me say it, will you? – no response came from the grave. John sighed, nervous - All right, you win, of course it's not like anything will change if I say it… I… I…
Oh, gods, John couldn't make himself do it. It was overwhelming. For a second a part of his mind thought he'd rather have a gun aiming at his head, once again. "Crying or dying… Damn you, Harry!" he reminded. Now or never.
- Alright… I loved you, Sherlock… I love you still… And it's just that kind of love you were always so afraid of. So, say it: I'm weak, I'm just a huge ordinary person making a huge ordinary mistake… But, of course you won't say anything…
Only then John realized he was drunk and talking to a marble grave. He felt pathetic. He felt sad. Above all he felt lonely, and empty…
Shaking his head trying to regain a bit of sanity or composure or whatever, John stood up, biting his lips to keep himself from saying more stupidities. Thank god the dead people do know how to keep a secret.
Hiding his bare hands in his pockets to keep them warm, John turned around and walked away from Sherlock's tomb. He still wanted to cry, but at least now he could control himself. After all, the sudden confession to Sherlock had helped. Just a bit.
Now he could feel the dizziness stronger than ever, and every step was a challenge because he was losing his balance. Yay… the beers were finally knocking him off. "I didn't even drink that much" he thought.
And then, a shadow came from behind a tree, just a few steps away from John. He was way too depressed to suspect, so he just ignored the figure, thinking it might be another lonely person crying at a tomb. He kept walking away.
- No! Wait! JOHN!
Someone reached out for John, grabbed his arm and forced him to turn around. And John Watson found himself face to face with the last person he expected to see, who also was, ironically, the only one he desperately wanted to see.
It was a dream, a hallucination. It couldn't be real.
Feeling confused and shocked as he'd ever felt, John passed out.
Another Note: Yes, John! YES! He is alive! When I watched the episode I swear that tiny second when we see Sherlock at the end was the only thing that stopped my tears. I would be terribly depressed still if not for that.
So, how you liked the fic? I personally relish on the idea of having John drunk, confused and confessing. I'm glad with what I wrote, actually.
This isn't, however, the long story with a complex plot I usually try. It's pretty much some sort of unnaturally long one-shot. Anyway I believe I did manage to stay IC, just a decent bit (if you don't think so, please burst my bubble in a kind way, will you?).
Sherlock shows up in next chapter. Yay!
And please review if you believe in Sherlock Holmes. I'm addicted to reviews.