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It is quiet. The flat is always quiet now.
John exhales. He slides his hands across the thick material, nerves alight with thousands of tiny fibres, cotton and polyester and something inherently expensive soothing across his fingertips. It is soft. It is cold. Delicately in hand, he brings it close to his face. He inhales slowly. Buries his face against the coat, clutching it tightly to his chest. It feels like pure sherlock; those little glimpses of touch when they would brush shoulders or nudge arms, hands grasping each others’ for a sliver of a second before leaving again. Always leaving.
It doesn’t smell like him. It’s been dry-cleaned and mended, returned to its former state. There is no more blood, nor the faint scent of cigarettes. It doesn’t smell like bergamot or tobacco or chemicals or ink. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. But he’s so tired.
Footsteps make their way up the landing and into the flat. John hardly registers them. He doesn’t move, pressing his forehead to the cloth.
“There’s a car waiting for you downstairs, sir.” A voice eventually states, standing unobtrusively by the door. After a moment, John shifts, tilts his head just enough to count as acknowledgement, and then they leave. Wearily, reluctantly he pulls himself away. His hands linger until the cloth falls away; slipping out of his grasp even when he holds on. For a moment, he still can't bring himself to leave, staring blankly ahead.
Mycroft is waiting in the car, and Mrs. Hudson carpools with them. It’s a strange trio. She chats the whole way, though neither John or Mycroft say much. Mycroft greets them when they enter, and John occasionally hums at whatever Mrs. Hudson says, and that's it. Mycroft and John made eye contact as he entered and had not interacted past that. The weather matches the day, dreary like every other day in London, overcast and bright yet dull.
The cemetery is a few hours out, far from London’s busy worklife, but they don’t head there first. First, is the viewing.
The entire building is empty, bare of decorations, walls bland and only adorned with dark, antique wood and polished brass. Steps echo off the walls, clear and crisp. Dress shoe, loafer, dress shoe, loafer. There are hardly any smells, as if people don’t enter often, and it is easy to get a whiff of someone’s intense cologne whenever they pass. It is overpowering, chemically.
John misses Bergamot. He misses the strange expensive roll-on Sherlock used for special occasions. Sometimes, if it was a particularly exciting one, he would wear it to crime scenes, although he more often preferred to keep his senses clear.
The casket is a dark stained wood. It’s nice. It seems like the kind of thing that Sherlock would turn up his nose at, not in disgust, but in defiance, as if he were above death. Above trivial things like coffins. It doesn’t seem real.
Sherlock wouldn’t like any of it. John had wanted to help, had wanted to be in charge of the planning, but he’d been so sick with grief. Laid out in bed all day, limbs heavy and exhausted, immovable. He couldn’t answer any questions about flower arrangements or open-casket viewings or pictures. As if he could look at pictures of him. Sometimes, his thoughts of him turn into a Him, and perhaps it is sacreligious but it feels right. John as his one disciple.
That one had gotten him thinking, though, about pictures and videos, and he’d gone digging through every photo album he ever owned, trying desperately to find just one picture of him that wasn’t from the media. He’d already collected every newspaper clipping he could find. There was one physical photo, a cheap Polaroid from a pub night with Greg. It had made John want to bawl, but instead he’d laughed his head off because of how annoyed Sherlock looked in it, with John’s arm slung over him drunkenly, chin hooked on his shoulder.
One photo. It hadn’t been used.
So, Mycroft had been in charge of the funeral planning. That was probably why it was all so tasteful and expensive and boring.
Mycroft, who seemed to be doing his best to stay as far away from John as possible. He was at the furthest end of the room and, despite avoiding him, has been watching John intensely. John looks up and catches his eyes. Mycroft looks away immediately and John instantly feels sick to his stomach.
There is a very long moment where he does nothing, staring down at the floor but refusing to move. His hands clench into fists at his sides, but loosen after a moment. He’s so tired. He shuffles forward, slowly crouches down beside the coffin and leans over it. He doesn't want to touch it. It makes it all the more real. He closes his eyes.
“Please,” he whispers, barely audible. His mouth is dry. “Please, just this once. One more miracle.” Something curls up in his chest, tight and cloying, “I won’t ask for anything ever again. Just this. Please.”
He waits. And waits. Opens his eyes. Nothing.
He stands, hands tight at his sides again, and then turns on his heel, escaping the room as quickly as he can. His hand comes up to cover his mouth, shaking. On his trip across the room, out the door, he makes brief eye contact with the elder Holmes once again, who is still watching him.
His voice, hoarse and horrified, calling out for a man doomed; hand in hand, feet moving clumsily along with one another, running, running, running; wrists, chained to each other; quiet whispers in the dark of an unfamiliar apartment.
The tight ball in his chest is squeezing him like a vice, and he bursts through the door in just enough time to choke out a sob into his hand, clamped over his mouth. He can’t do this, he can’t. How can they expect him to stand there and accept this? This is so wrong. All of the people here now- they were never there when Sherlock needed it, when they both needed it.
They do not carpool, the second time around. Mrs. Hudson hitches a ride with her sister, and Mycroft has mysteriously decided to ride in a different car. The car is deadly silent on his own. He hardly moves, staring out the window, exhaustion seeping into his bones. The hours to St. Woolos Cemetery seem to pass beyond time; everything is very slow and very fast. Once, for no reason, he finds himself suddenly halfway to hyperventilating, and he really, honestly feels like he can't breathe. He almost asks the driver to pull over. But he calms himself within the same second, and it fades back into numbness as quickly as it appeared.
It is equally dreary in Newport. Equally sad. John stares at the dark funeral coach as he exits, watching it park. People arrive, gather, speak in hushed voices, a veil of quiet grief muffling it all. There are so many people, a great many, and John is not surprised.
“Bit of a crowd.” A voice comments somewhere behind him, an ever-silent approacher. John turns and faces him. Mycroft is looking out at the party, hands behind his back, chin raised and face set. “Unexpected.”
John frowns.
“Unexpected?” He questions. Mycroft glances at him. Looks him up and down and then hums.
“...Maybe not that unexpected. He always was the better liked of the two of us.”
“I’m not sure everyone here liked him.”
“No,” Mycroft agrees, looking out at them again. They lapse into silence.
There is a bit of a scuffle near the coach, where the sparse group of Paul Bearers seem to be in deep discussion. They watch silently for a moment, Mycroft frowning faintly, before John abruptly turns and grabs Mycroft by the arm. He is cold, where John can feel the smallest sliver of skin peaking between his glove and his cuff, enough to nearly make him shiver. His hand creeps down instead to drag him by his gloved hand, in an effort to escape the chill. Mycroft makes a sound of surprise, too befuddled to fight it as John starts to tug him along.
“They’re short,” John explains as they pull to a stop. Mycroft looks very suddenly panicked.
“I think you misunderstand me, Doctor Watson,” he laughs nervously, “I am not…”
“Grab a side.” John interrupts before he can continue.
John takes his place on one side after explaining who he is, and the group adjusts understandingly, allowing Mycroft to place himself behind John. Mycroft looks almost sick with anxiety, and John would be amused if he didn’t understand so thoroughly.
“It’s not that heavy with all of us.” John reassures quietly, as the crowd of mourners step aside. They seem to be mentally preparing themselves. Preparing to grieve. Preparing to move on. There is no music, as they lift. Just quiet breathing and huffs of effort as they carry, as they bear the weight.
When they drop it, position the casket and step back, John turns just enough to see Mycroft’s face. Mycroft, staring down at the coffin with unmasked pain, looking uncertain, cheeks pink from the wind, jaw working. He looks up at just the right moment to meet John’s gaze, and John sees so much but isn’t really sure what any of it means; he thinks that Mycroft might be about to cry, but then he turns, marches away, and John is left unsure of what he’d just seen or where Mycroft’s gone.
“Uhm…” the mic squeals for a moment when he steps up, and everyone cringes. It isn’t too loud, thankfully, only enough to be heard outside in the wind with their big crowd. John clears his throat, looking out at them all. He is the first to speak, after all the fuss and hubbub with the music and the director giving a few words. He will be the only one to speak.
“…I think, I’ll be the first to say that I’m not surprised at the amount of people here this afternoon,” he begins slowly, voice low and thoughtful. There is a nervous titter in response to his words. He doesn’t look up, staring downwards. “I don’t think Sherlock knew how beloved he was. He had people that cared. That loved him. All manner of people here today, friends and family and ally’s. Maybe even enemies,” he looks up, then, makes eye contact with a few people in the crowd, “Sherlock Holmes-“
His voice breaks. He coughs; swallows. Swallows again. He can’t do this, he can’t. He takes a very deep, very slow breath; in, then out.
“Sherlock Holmes was the cleverest, most brilliant man I have ever known, and ever will know.”
There is silence. He clears his throat again.
“That’s…that’s it.” He backs away from the microphone awkwardly, voice fading, desperate to escape. “That’s all.”
He steps back and, once again, for the third time that day, his eyes lock onto Mycroft Holmes, standing far away from the proceedings, clutching his umbrella and watching with something like determination, steely gaze unwavering. John feels a bit of whiplash at the contrast between him now and him a few minutes ago.
Jaw aching, Sherlock heaves him upwards bodily with so much force he stumbles. He laughs breathlessly and Sherlock claps him on the shoulder, squeezing him close. He is jittery and bright after the chase
“Well, then,” the detective exhales, “Hardly needed me, did we?”
“Shut it.” John rolls his eyes, unable to stop himself from grinning.
“One hit! You should be in the army.”
John punches him in the shoulder. Lestrade is there to wryly congratulate them, takes their bare-bones statement while Sherlock begs to pretty please, can we do it in the morning, John is ever so tired and we've had an exhausting night. Like always, it works.
They stop for chips on the way home, talking and eating as they walk, forgoing a cab. Some nights are like this, where their time together is so easy and effortless that John thinks he could live like this forever. What else could there possibly be but this? Bliss. Constant, ever-moving adrenaline and fussy arguments and exciting chases through London streets, following at Sherlock’s heels.
The flat is warm and comfortable. Mrs Hudson is asleep downstairs. They crack open a bottle of whiskey; John isn’t sure why tonight feels so special.
“What’s the celebration?” Sherlock promptly, smiling faintly up at John as he pours a hefty amount- possibly too hefty- into his tumbler.
“To us.” John answers, straightening and pouring his own glass, “You, and your brilliance.”
“You flatter me.”
“Yes, I do.”
They toast, glasses clinking each other jocundly. They drink possibly too much, and laugh possibly too loudly, until they are left a tangle of limbs on the sofa, sitting on either end and facing each other. John sways along pleasantly as the radio queues up something vaguely gaelic-sounding. There are hummed lyrics, thickly accented in Irish, but he can’t make them out.
Sherlock makes a low noise, detangling his legs and swinging his bare feet down to the floor. He sets down his glass and stands, inhaling deeply before pivoting to face John, stooping to grab his hand. He doesn't ask permission; he doesn’t need to. John rises, hand-in-hand.
“Come on,” Sherlock murmurs, leading him to the center of the room, shoving the coffee table out of the way with one long limb. John, uncertain, simply follows his movements. He always follows.
“Oh,” John laughs nervously as Sherlock guides his hands into position, already swaying. “We’ve tried this before, I’m no good.”
“Anyone can learn.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Just follow my lead,” Sherlock looks so happy, so content, John can't bring himself to refuse. It is not often that they have so perfect a day, or that Sherlock is in such a mood.
John says conversationally, after a few moments of very focused waltzing and staring down at his feet, “You like dancing.”
It is meant to be a question but it doesn’t come out as one because John already knows. Sherlock is quiet for a moment. John has no idea how he can be so loose, so lazy but confident in his movements.
“I took ballet when I was younger,” he eventually says, and John looks up at him, blinking. Sherlock doesn’t let him stop moving, swaying him a bit more heavily to the side, ending in an almost-spin around the room. John immediately looks back downward, trying to get his balance.
“I didn’t know that.” John responds, clutching Sherlock's hand tightly. Why did they choose to do this after drinking?
They don't talk much after that. John wonders if he should say something, initially, as it seems like the admittance is somehow important, but he doesn’t comment on it in the end. They sway for a while, until Sherlock attempts to increase the difficulty. It has John laughing awkwardly with warm cheeks and reluctance, and Sherlock tries to ease him into a flow.
“Don’t be so stiff,” Sherlock chides, smoothing his hand down John's back briefly. It makes John shiver. “Stop thinking about it. You don’t have to be good. Just..”
Sherlock starts humming along with the music. Humming. He spins, taking John along with him, and they both laugh. They don't speak, twirling around the room, transitioning from a waltz to more of a caper.
“Yes! That’s-” Sherlock cheers as John swings away from him, still hand-in-hand. They orbit one another happily, loose-limbed and high-spirited. They are dancing around the room, occasionally separated, mostly together, until the music starts to slow, to taper off, low and quiet. John leans against Sherlock when they meet at the last moment, chin against his shoulder. Slowly, they ease to a stop.
They stand like that, unmoving, for a few seconds. John feels himself fading, the mood settling into something not quite as pleasant as before. He slides his hands from Sherlock’s, dropping them to his side and stepping back. He clears his throat, swallows. He isn’t looking at Sherlock.
He thinks to himself, look at him. Look at his face. Tell him.
But the moment passes, and Sherlock steps away as well, folding his hands behind his back. He often does that when he doesn’t want to be seen fidgeting. John glances up at him.
“Thank you, for that. That- uh…”
After a moment, Sherlock shrugs, “Lesson.” He smiles. “A dancing lesson.”
An empty chair is located across from him, the slightest indent in the cushion, now abandoned. He steps forward, wandering around it, smoothing his hand along the surface of the back, where a heavy throw lay slung over it. Rounding it, he lowers himself until he is sat in it. It is cold.
Inhale. Exhale. He pulls up his knees, curling up and relaxing slowly, leaning against the cushioned back. He buries his face against it, inhaling deeply, welcomed with bergamot and tobacco and ink and something distinctly chemical.
Sherlock had this fancy pants cologne he’d wear whenever he was in a particularly braggadocious mood; it still sits on the dresser in his bedroom. John once wandered into the room, trying to reconcile the stillness and quiet with the empty, unoccupied bed, and had ended up curled up atop the bedsheets, sobbing silently into the pillows. It’d still smelled like Sherlock's hair products. The same products that John readily discovered did not do wonders for his own hair; he didn’t know how Sherlock wore that in his hair every day. Then again, they have very different genetics. Had.
Once, John pinched some of Sherlock’s shampoo when he’d run out, and within genuine seconds of exiting the bathroom, Sherlock knew. God, his face was so red, he hated it, said John should get his own fancy hair product. He was right. But John was out of shampoo. All night, he graced John with a full blown violin concerto; not a soothing one, like the kind he’d sometimes begin when John woke with a start, one floor above, trapped in his own head.
It’s still here. His violin. Untouched. Well- not entirely. After some time of it resting on the windowsill where Sherlock last left it, John was struck with an abrupt panic. He’d left it in the sun, it’d been in the sun this whole time. So, he moved it. Just below the window. In the shade.
John turns his head and his gaze meets the unmoving thing, standing guard on the floor against the wall. Doing anything more than that felt like a betrayal. Sometimes John could touch it, it wasn’t like Sherlock would turn into a rabid beast, but it was a precious item. Is. Sometimes, it was just another part of Sherlock. It would be like grabbing his hand and deciding where to put it, or dragging him by the shoulder. It was his. It was him.
God, John misses it. The sounds Sherlock could make with it were reverent. Beautiful and soul-wrenching. He could have been a violinist, in another life. A famous one, who traveled across the world and played on stages, or maybe solo-ed in traveling orchestras. John doesn’t really know how that all works. Waking in the night, ears ringing and vision still flooded with sand and gunfire, and then being met with the most gentle, whispering performance. They were for me, John thinks, they were always for me.
The violin sits. It stares at him with sharp, beady eyes. Bright ones. Smart ones. It sees him. John thinks that it is terrifying, but beautiful. It isn’t far away, John need only rise and to step over. He probably doesn’t even need to fully walk over, but he does. He stands and steps over to the window, and then slowly sinks down to his knees. The violin lifts from the floor with some unsettled dust. John can see it through the light from the window. It feels wrong to hold it, but it is all that is left of him now. This flat is everything. It’s all of it.
It twinges a bit as he brings it to himself, cradled like a baby. Gently, he plucks a string. It sounds off. Different. He runs his fingertip up and down it. The bow is still in the case and now his fingers smell like resin. He shifts to hold it with the neck away from him, the body closer to him. Is he shaking? He thinks he’s shaking. He doesn’t know why, but he brings the bridge to his mouth, presses his lips to it. It smells like an old book.
He wakes up however long later in Sherlock's chair, with a throw slung over his shoulders and cold tea on the coffee table. The flat is silent.
“John?”
John's gaze flickers, eyelids shuttering. Sherlock swallows, afraid to move, watching cautiously.
“You here?” Sherlock whispers, knuckles brushing John's cheek, just below his eye. John stares blankly, although he looks a little more present than before. He blinks slowly.
“Sherlock?”
“It’s me.” Sherlock shuffles closer on his side. He is right there, right there, like everything is normal, like he is supposed to be there. As if he never left. John cannot process anything but the sudden awareness that he is here, now, laying on the floor in front of him and waiting for John to come back to reality.
“Sherlock-” John almost chokes on his name. He feels like he’s suffocating. Is this real? John can feel him, can feel his fingers against his face. He’s warm. He’s breathing. He’s alive. How is that possible? That shouldn’t be possible. John can’t breathe. He moves suddenly, janky, clutching Sherlock’s shirt with sudden fervor, desperation seeping out of his skin, euphoria bursting out of nothingness, “Sherlock.”
It’s all he can say. John practically slams into him, arms slung around him, grasping him, pulling him. Confusion, anger, and bright, burning relief flourish through his body. He cannot breathe, Sherlock is here and he has taken all the air but that's okay, John would gladly let him have it all as long as he stays here. He’s gasping, hyperventilating, clutching the other man against him, trying to feel, to make sure he’s real, to register the scent of bergamot and tobacco and, sometimes, blood. It’s him, it's him, he’s here.
“Sherlock,” he breathes out, again and again, face shoved into the crook of his neck. John can feel him grasping him back, holding him. He's saying something, but it doesn’t matter, John doesn’t need to register the words, only the low, familiar baritone that he hasn’t heard in over two agonizingly long years.
“It’s alright,” John registers above his ear. Sherlock’s hand is holding the back of his head, fingers sunk into his hair. “It’s okay. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.”