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Anonymous
Because. I actually hated what I wrote for this before. But I don’t feel like deleting it.
So I’m going to write something else.
—
John Watson returned as soon as his shift at the hospital was over, making his way back to 221B to check on Sherlock. He hesitated, wondering if he should go in, before strengthening his resolve and opening the door to find Mrs. Hudson sitting on the stairs, her face in her hands.
“Mrs. Hudson…?”
A small sob escaped her mouth through withered fingers. He immediately rushed toward her, kneeling in front of her and moving her hands away from her face. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?” he asked quickly. “Is it Sherlock? Has he had one of his fits?”
She nodded, waving her hand toward the living room. He immediately straightened and hurried into the room, only to find his housemate crumpled in a chair, breathing heavily, hair completely messed up, face red. He approached the man cautiously, stretching a hand toward him.
It was only when he saw the rolled sleeve and the punctures in Sherlock’s arm that he realized what had happened. He quickly took the needle away from Sherlock and kneeling before him, checking his pulse. His heart rate was slightly elevated, but not high enough to cause alarm. He had just had a fright. He seemed to be getting those more and more often lately.
“Sherlock,” he whispered.
However, the other man didn’t seem to hear him. He simply continued to stare down at the carpet, completely motionless.
“Voices…” Sherlock said after a moment. “I can hear him, John…all the time…he’s going to burn me, John…”
John sighed, raising a hand to brush against Sherlock’s cheek. He had been talking about this voice for ages. Moriarty, he called it. John was sure that Sherlock was convinced the man was real. He would wake up in terror every night, plagued by this elusive notion, Moriarty.
“Nobody’s going to burn you, Sherlock. It’s in your head,” he said softly, holding his flatmate. “Just in your head.”
“Make him leave…” Sherlock said, a trace of a whimper in his voice.
“Yes, yes, he’s gone, Sherlock. He was never here,” John said soothingly, stroking the back of Sherlock’s head.
Soon after, John put Sherlock to bed after administering his medication.
“I don’t know what would happen to him, if it wasn’t for you,” Mrs. Hudson said, her hand shaking slightly as she took a cup of tea from John. “He probably would have died that day, at St. Barts.”
John closed his eyes. He had been trying to forget that incident, when he found Sherlock raving on the top of St. Barts, screaming to the cosmos about being ordinary. If John hadn’t grabbed Sherlock when he did, he probably would have jumped and fallen to his death.
“One more thing, Doctor,” she said, putting her cup down. “What’s Moriarty?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
The first time John met Mary, it was four months after Sherlock’s suicide. She was visiting his clinic, complaining of odd pains. Mary instantly recognized him; she had been an avid reader of his blog. Apparently, Sherlock had solved the case of her missing father several years before John had met the man.
She told him quite honestly that she couldn’t believe that Sherlock had been lying about her father. She believed.
He prescribes her some painkillers and tells her to return if the pain is back.
—-
The second time John meets Mary, it is several weeks after he saw her first. The pain has returned, worse than before. But Mary is a strong woman, almost frustratingly stubborn in John’s opinion. Their meeting lasts longer than it should, due to John regaling her with a story of one of Sherlock’s exploits. The pain of the loss of one of the best men John has ever known is beginning to calm to a dull ache.
Mary leaves the clinic with a date in her calendar to have an ultrasound, and a date of an entirely different kind.
—-
John thinks he’s in love.
Mary thinks so too.
Mary also knows she has a tumor.
—-
They get married in the spring, almost a year after Sherlock’s death. Mary is a joy to be around, despite her illness. She’s strong. It’s because of Mary that John decides to turn the cases he was on with Sherlock into full-blown novels. Mary helps him get them published.
Due to the media frenzy over the ‘fraudulent detective’, it’s no surprise that John’s stories are bestsellers in less than a year. He spends a lot of his money to tend to Mary. Eventually, he leaves his job at the clinic to care for her, the money arriving from his books more than enough to sustain them.
Sometimes John hates being a doctor. He knows when it is impossible to survive a fall, how to check a pulse. He knows how to sew a man’s entrails back into his body.
He knows the survival rate of people with an advanced stage of stomach cancer.
—-
Mary passes away nearly three years after Sherlock. John has run out of tears.
For a month he wants to do nothing but lie in bed, silent, too scared to fall asleep and have the nightmares return.
Until one day, when he visits the graveyard where the two greatest people he had ever known lie.
Suddenly, strong arms wrap around his neck from behind. He is too shocked to retaliate with his battle-bred instincts. And the feel of the wool, the smell of chemicals and something else he can’t quite place, is all too familiar, although the fact that they were shaking with what he believed was grief was fairly new.
“I am so very sorry, John.”
focus on the red dot for about 40 seconds without blinking, then blink quickly and immediately look at a white wall (or any light coloured surface) - enjoy :D
HOW DOES THIS NOT HAVE MORE NOTES?
Benevision.
People who make me jealous because they art beautifully: hikaruhan
How do you people art. I don’t understand
Itty-bitty John and Sherlock have a sleepover and read adventure stories.
(thanks for 500+ followers! You guys are super!)
… I just tried to trace this.
Uh shit. Just inserted my own self on top of him for my own… amusement.
that’s… unbearably hot.
oh dear christ this is fantastic
casually reblogging
