#post recheinbach

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Can you forgive me?

John feels nauseous when Sherlock gets his will. They’re allowed to open the grave to prove the great detective’s theory. Sherlock wants John to come, though he really should’ve known better, according to John. It’s their second crime scene together since Sherlock came back from his faked death, and things are strained between them. Their co-habitation is tense and awkward, which makes John itchy and half-mad with anger and sorrow equally measured.

John’s told everyone that he went to visit Sherlock’s grave twice a month, but the truth is that he’s only been there once. He couldn’t bear to see the black gravestone with Sherlock’s name on it. It doesn’t help much that the grave that’s about to be opened, is only a few metres away from Sherlock’s fake grave. John hasn’t dared to look in the direction out of fear that he’ll do something terribly stupid, like falling apart in front of half of the Yard.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock murmurs beside him, having taken a break from pestering the men with the shovels.

“If you have to ask, the answer should be obvious,” John mutters under his breath.

His hands are balled into fists in his jacket pockets, his body stiff and alert. Sherlock draws a breath and is about to speak, when Lestrade calls him over. The grave is open.

“Empty, like you said,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. “How on earth did you know?”

Sherlock speaks rapidly, leading the yarders in the direction of the man who’s faked his death, and Lestrade takes his leave.

“Aren’t we going with them?” John asks hoarsely when Sherlock stands beside him again, gazing over at where his gravestone once was.

“No, they don’t need us anymore today. I’m taking you home, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you why…”

Sherlock’s voice breaks and John looks shocked at him.

“Alright?” John asks and places a hand on Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s body shakes and John acts on instinct, forgetting all about his anger. He pulls Sherlock in for a tight embrace, relishing the sudden proximity of this madman.

“Can you forgive me, John?” Sherlock whispers with a trembling voice.

“I don’t know,” John says honestly. “But, by the state of you now, I guess it was much more to your absence than a crazy and exhilarating adventure. Tell me.”

John leads them to a secluded bench close to where John stood and begged a dead man not to be dead, two years ago. When John had told Sherlock about it, his reply had been – “I know. I heard you.”

His voice had been soft, even affectionate, but at the time, it’d just irked John. He wanted to scream and shake Sherlock and ask him why he hadn’t told John. Why he wasn’t allowed to come with him. Why he’d let him grieve like a widower. He hadn’t but it had taken all his willpower to act calm and just nod, pretending everything was business as usual. Which it wasn’t.

It should feel strange to hold Sherlock like this. Soothing him, stroking his back, whispering “shh”, and “I’ve got you”, and “I’m so glad you’re back”, and “I’ve missed you.” But the truth is, it feels utterly natural, a thing John’s longed to do for ages. Even before the Fall.

Sherlock’s head rests comfortably on John’s right shoulder, and his breathing eases, grows steadier. Time to confess.

When Sherlock’s finished telling John about the snipers, Moriarty’s unexpected suicide, his quest to hunt down and destroy the dead man’s network, ending it all by telling John about his last days away, in Serbia, captured and tortured; it’s John’s turn to break down. He weeps in Sherlock’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, letting Sherlock stroke his hair, rocking him, whispering “I had no other choice”, and “I would’ve taken you with me if I could”, and “you were always on my mind”, and “I missed you every second I was away from you.”

When they walk past the empty grave, John shudders. He turns around to locate Sherlock’s gravestone, but it’s no longer there. 

“Mycroft had it removed last week,” Sherlock says. That’s why I needed you to come along today, so that you could see it with your own eyes.”

John nods and turns to face Sherlock. He grips the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulls him closer, looking him square in the eyes.

“I forgive you,” John says softly and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @phoenix27884 @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld

[gregorovitch-adler]

Pen

A pen was all he had with him, in the end. Ever since Sherlock had committed suicide, by jumping from the rooftop of the hospital building, John was left with an empty mind, an empty heart, and just a void the size of a black hole in his soul.

In this miserable and alcoholic state, John was determined about one thing: he would let the whole of London - or if possible, the whole world - know the truth about everything that had led Sherlock to that suicidal state at all. Because if he had to hear one more person referring to Sherlock as a 'fake genius', he'd go insane.

John was going to make a long post on his blog, and for that, he was creating a rough draft in his notebook with a pen.

Because pen was the only weapon he was left with, now.

***

Sherlock September Challenge by @onesmallfamily

Prompt: Pen

Tagging: @lisbeth-kk , @helloliriels , @gaylilsherlock , @calaisreno , @topsyturvy-turtely .

[reichenbach-watson]

Join him? Well, now, that's a thought...

[charanteleclercfanfiction]

You Believe In Ghosts Chapter 1 Messages and Microscopes

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.

You believe in ghosts.

Messages and Microscopes

John yawned. It had been a long day at the surgery. Work was him “establishing a routine”, according to his therapist. Some form of him making closure. Moving on.

“It is a really good sign you’re moving on from this.” Had been her exact words. But he didn’t want to look for closure. He had lost so much in the last year. Lestrade no longer called with cases. Mycroft never sent his sleek black cars after him. Mrs Hudson spent less and less time at 221, only barely saying hello to him. He knew they all still went to the grave. He saw new flowers there every Sunday. All these people were getting closure after Sherlock. John was doing the opposite. Submersing himself in a dead man.

He still saw him. Just a flash of a coat, or a glimpse of dark hair. These small sightings were what were keeping John sane. John laughed to himself quietly. Only after Sherlock Holmes would he think that was sane. He knew it was all in his head. Dead men don’t just rise again. Dead men stay dead. But he still remembers. He still wants to see. Because if he didn’t, that would be like forgetting Sherlock. Not believing in him. So he sees. To remember. To scream out a silent message at an unobservant world.

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes”.

He doesn’t tell anyone he still sees his dead best friend. Not his therapist. Not Sarah. Not Mrs Hudson. No-one.

He walks up the steps to the front door, which still shows the shiny gold number of the house, 221B. At least those shiny gold numbers hadn’t left him. It was some sort of continuity. He had considered moving out, in those first, desperately hard weeks. But he couldn’t bring himself to. It was too much like accepting defeat. After he got better, more “normal”, he had thought about trying to get himself a girlfriend. But that was like an insult to Sherlock’s memory. Plus any potential girlfriends might get freaked out by the skull. Which was continually stolen by Mrs Hudson, and taken back by John.

He slowly walked up the stairs, noticing a newspaper outside Mrs Hudson’s door again. Maybe visiting her sister. He walked into the flat, glancing around, making sure everything was how Sherlock had left it.

Skull – check. Purple shirt – check. Microscope – che- not check.

He quickly walked back into the lounge, making sure that it wasn’t hiding anywhere. Even though a microscope is very hard to hide. Given its size. He couldn’t see it. Panic was starting to build. He didn’t want Sherlock’s stuff to be touched. He wouldn’t have wanted that. He ran into Sherlock’s bedroom. Not in there. His bedroom. Not there either. He ran back down the lounge, frantically combing a hand through his sandy blonde hair. He took a few deep breaths.

“Think logically. Where could it be?” He paused, imaging where a microscope could possibly be. Bedrooms – no. Lounge – no. Attic – maybe.

John raced up to the attic, three steps at a time. After a couple of minutes frantic searching, he found the microscope. He let out a breath of relief, and the tears which he hadn’t realised he had been holding back. He turned the microscope around, making sure there were no blemishes made on it. The only new thing was a note, written on a scrap of paper. John fumbled with the paper, his hands still shaking from his sobs a minute before. Four words were written there.

Move on John. Please.

o0o

Mrs Hudson walked quietly up the stairs, and peered round the doorframe. She constantly worried about John. After Sherlock’s death, instead of crying, grieving, he closed up. Refusing to believe he was hurting. The military had something to answer for, if she had had her way. She generally left John alone though. Every time she saw him, it seemed like Sherlock was there. Like a presence. She couldn’t deal with losing him again. She knew John was hurt by it, but he seemed happier alone. That was why Sherlock’s brother never came. That was why that nice DI never came. It was like looking at the past.

But she was worried about him.

Generally, she heard him moving, talking to no-one in particular, and hearing the telly. He had been back for hours, and not a movement. Not after that boisterous running, which was nearly 5 hours ago now. She knocked on the door. No answer.

“John?” She called, looking around. No sound. She moved into the living room. Not a thing out of place. She checked the kitchen. She checked Sherlock’s bedroom. She left the flat, standing on the landing. She decided to check John’s bedroom. She was standing outside his door when she felt a breath of air. She looked up the remaining set of stairs, and saw the skylight open. She poked her head up onto the roof, and saw John sitting on the edge of the roof. And she didn’t go to him. She climbed down the stairs, and called two people. That nice DI, and Sherlock’s brother. The last thing she said to Mycroft was to remind his brother that he was a git for leaving John. She promptly hung up.

o0o

Greg Lestrade stood on the roof of 221 Baker St. John Watson sat on the edge of that same roof. Greg just stood and watched, not wanting to break John’s train of thoughts.

“And there was the time we played Cluedo. And Sherlock was insistent on the fact that Dr. Black was the murderer. That game ended up on the wall.” John laughed, swinging his legs. Greg just carried on watching. John suddenly looked up at him.

“Do you believe in Paradise, Greg?”

Greg started, shock crossing his face. “I... umm... I dunno...” He trailed off lamely. This part of the job was what he hated most. Having to watch grief unfold when he told a family their loved one was never coming back home. Having to pick up the pieces. It didn’t help when that was happening to someone you know in your personal life. It made it all that bit harder.

“Yes. Yes, I do believe in Paradise.” Greg asserted. John looked up at him.

“Do you think Sherlock’s there?” The question came out almost as a whisper. Greg winced at the pain in the voice.

 “I think so. He’s probably running around, chasing all the criminals he didn’t catch before.” Greg laughed, his voice catching slightly. He moved to sit down next to John, his legs dangling above the busy world below.

John thought to himself before replying, “I don’t think he is though.” John’s voice grated on the silence. “I think he’s still here. I think he wants to make sure we’re okay.” John’s voice starts to tremble, only slightly. “Because he wasn’t a sociopath. He did care.” The tremble got louder, more noticeable.

“What he wouldn’t be happy about though is his best friend sitting on a rooftop.” Greg stated, watching John from the corner of his eyes. Something in John resolved itself then, his composure remaking itself.

“I just... I dunno, felt closer to him up here.” John sighed. “It was either here, or the morgue. And dead bodies aren’t the world’s friendliest companions.” Greg laughed, then stood up.

“I do believe in ghosts. And I do think Sherlock’s around here. He’s probably been solving all the crimes down at the Met, then getting frustrated when we don’t pay attention, and then bringing body parts back to the flat.” John thought about this.

“I don’t think I believe in ghosts as such. I think I just believe in Sherlock Holmes.” John sighed again. Greg waited, and watched this broken man lose another piece of himself.

“Coming back inside?” He asked, holding out his hand. John waited for a few seconds, then took the offered hand, and hauled himself back up.

“Lead the way.”

o0o

[gregorovitch-adler]

Burnt

His entire body was on fire. Fortunately, some good samaritan had dragged him out of the bonfire. As if God Himself was testing John's faith; taking him to the brink of death and dragging him back.

With half-open eyes, he tried to make sense of his mostly blurred surroundings. John felt the samaritan's hand faintly patting on his cheek and screaming his name. But wait, what was this? The samaritan had shown up in a long, black overcoat; with his black, curly hair falling over his forehead; with no protective gear? This saint had dived straight into the fire without giving a damn about himself.

Sherlock. Of course it was him. He saw a faint figure of Mary too, before the whole world around him blurred and went black.

***

When John opened his eyes, he found himself covered in linen sheets. He tried to touch the fabric of whatever he was wearing. Something loose and thin. Then He looked around himself and gathered that he was in hospital.

His head was throbbing with pain. As if someone had forcefully inserted a hundred nails into his skull and was shaking his head mercilessly.

When he tried to move his face muscles, John felt a bit of swelling around his temple and cheek. There was some swelling on his forehead, too. He tried to touch his face with his left hand and realised that the skin of his face had been charred. His lips were so chapped, they were almost glued together.

His right hand was connected to an IV bag through a syringe and tube. To take care of his dehydrated state, perhaps.

Sherlock was sitting on a chair next to John's bed, hands steepled beneath his chin, and seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

In front of John, there stood a set of bottle-green portable curtains.

Too tired to move, John just turned a head a little in Sherlock's direction. It was as though his head was made of a ton of bricks. "Sherlock." His voice was just above a whisper.

Sherlock was disturbed from his state of trance. He didn't seemed to mind, though. He just got up from his chair and moved it closer to John's bed. Sherlock leaned in, looking concerned. "How are you feeling?"

John thought of a reply. "Smoked."

Sherlock chuckled. "Thought I'd lost you."

"What happened to me? What did the doctors say?"

"Second degree burns, and they suspect a mild concussion. You'll be taken out of here for a CT scan as soon as this IV bag is empty."

John nodded and looked away for a moment. "And what about you?"

Sherlock held out his right palm. It was swollen and red. "The doctor gave me a gel to apply and some pills to consume."

John gulped down his throat, trying to make sense of everything.

Sherlock somehow showed up on time to save his life, and he was the one who went straight into the fire with little protection, enduring first degree burns as a consequence. And John could still remember the way Sherlock was shouting his name.

"Where's Mary?" asked John, frowning.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "She was here in the ER for a while, with me. She's gone home, now. She said that she was exhausted and needed some rest. She had asked me to keep her updated about you."

"How is she, otherwise?"

Sherlock opened his mouth for a moment but then he pursed his lips. "She's fine," he said, after a moment. "She wasn't that close to the bonfire. But she said that whatever she had witnessed was a nightmare and that she needed to leave."

John nodded. So, Mary, his girlfriend, was at a safe distance from the fire. Meanwhile Sherlock had risked his life for him that night.

Not that John blamed Mary for thinking about her own safety. Any sane person in her place would've done the same. John was just trying to take it all in.

Sherlock, the same man whom John had punched- three times no less, that too at a public place- was still in the hospital, sitting beside his bed and enduring first degree burns himself; meanwhile Mary had gone home when she saw fit.

This didn't make much sense. John was comparatively stable, now. Why didn't Sherlock leave, or at least go out of the ER for some time to take a break?

John looked over at the IV bag. It was still half-full. The rate of drops was quite slow.

John recalled the night he had strangled Sherlock and winced.

"What is it, John? You okay?" asked Sherlock.

John came out of his thoughts and looked at Sherlock with his brows furrowed. "Why did you fake your death again?"

Sherlock gaped at John with his eyes narrowed. "John, now is not the time-"

"It can take half an hour or more for this bag to be empty. We both have nothing else to do. May as well talk."

"I tried to, that night," said Sherlock, looking away with a neutral face. "Last time I remember, my nose was bleeding. Figured you weren't quite interested in talking," he said dryly.

John's nose was flared and his lips must forming a thin line. "Well, last time I remember, someone had made me grieve pointlessly for two bloody years."

"I didn't do that willingly. Moriarty had compelled me to do that," said Sherlock in a raised volume.

"Couldn't you have let me in on your plan? Many other people as known about your suicide being fake. Why not me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Would you just listen to what happened from my side? Without your annoying interruptions?"

"That's not-"

"Listen to me John. Otherwise we're not talking about this thing again."

John bit his lower lip and stared ahead at the curtains. He clenched his jaw and nodded.

"I had asked you to go to Baker Street, when someone told you that Mrs Hudson was shot, over the phone. You rushed to 221, Baker Street, only to find Mrs Hudson perfectly alright. I had to go to the roof top at of that hospital, alone, in the meantime."

John turned to look at Sherlock, abruptly. "Hang on. So, you knew that the phone call was fake?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded.

"And you still let me go?" John asked, feeling hurt.

"I had wanted to go with you, up there. Moriarty must have ordered his minions to plant that hoax phone call to push you away from me. What was I to do? I had no choice but to go ahead with whatever he was doing to get the knack of his motive." Sherlock compressed his lips. "Sorry about that, too."

"Continue," said John with a nod.

"When I was there, facing him finally, I thought it was probably for the best that you had gone. He was playing mind games even during those final moments. He told me that there was no keycode. It was all a lie.

"I was trying hard to find a way out of all this, so that I wouldn't have to have to fake my death, or worse yet, die for real."

"Then he asked me jump off the roof, telling me that he had planted three snipers on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. All three of you would die if I didn't jump.

"He revealed that those snipers could only be called off at his signal. And then he shot himself in the mouth, later on, blowing his brains out." Sherlock paused for breath.

John gasped softly. He wanted to reach out for Sherlock's hand to hold.

"If I'd not jumped from the roof to go ahead with Mycroft's plan, that was to fake my death in front of those snipers, they would've killed you.

"You had figured that the phone call was fake and were back at the pavement across the road from that hospital," said Sherlock and bit his bottom lip.

"My staged suicide had to look convincing to everyone, including you, John. I did what I had to. I'm sorry for hurting you like this."

John's heart sank and his brows were furrowed. "It's not the staged suicide itself that made me angry. Your timing was shitty, showing up at the restaurant in a waiter's disguise, just when I was about to propose to Mary. And you laughed at my moustache, on top of everything."

Sherlock looked down at his lap. "Sorry again."

"You don't have to keep apologising. What happened next? Where did you go?"

"Many parts of the world, trying to dismantle Moriarty's network. Most of my days were spent in Eastern Europe. Serbia, mainly."

"Why?"

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut. "You don't want to know."

John's lips were parted. "Yes, I do. Please, tell me what happened there."

Sherlock swallowed. "I'd been abducted and those people had trapped me in a small dungeon. I was confined within those four walls, chained and handcuffed."

"Jesus! What else?" John's eyes were pricking with tears around the corner.

"They used to whip me frequently, on my back. Sometimes they would use a knife, with or without burning flames, as they pleased. Starved me to death. Didn't let me sleep for days altogether."

John's eyes were welling up. He blinked furiously and swallowed. "Sherlock," he whispered. "I strangled you and your back had hit the floor that night, and your wounds were still fresh? I even punched you, three times, no less, in that condition. It's good that I'm here, I guess. Burnt. I had it coming."

"Don't say that-"

"But it's true!" John exclaimed and closed his eyes tightly as tears were streaming down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't have the first idea. I seriously apologise for hurting you after what you'd already been through," he said kept sobbing for a while, aggravating his headache even more. He stifled his sobs with his hand and tried to cover his face. "Could- could you please forgive me?"

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and held it tightly in his own. "Of course, I can. I already have. I didn't even think about it in that way. You did not have the full picture of the situation. You didn't know," he said and interlocked their fingers. "I told you, now was not the time."

John kept crying softly for some time. He had been in love with Sherlock, when they were still living together. John hadn't dared to say anything, for the sake of maintaining their friendship.

John still felt the same way about Sherlock, even more so after everything he had learnt about him, just now.

John had been in a relationship with Mary so that he could create an illusion of being alive. Because to him, Sherlock really was dead at that time. He had liked Mary but the love he had felt for Sherlock was something else. So far beyond. He really was an idiot for physically hurting Sherlock like this.

At the back of his mind, John couldn't help but feel actually good about his proposal being interrupted, that night. He'll have to explain himself to Mary, of course. Break it off with her, probably. But that discussion could wait.

John wiped his tears from his eyes and hissed in pain because of a burning sensation. He stopped crying and turned to look at Sherlock. "I'm really sorry."

Sherlock was still holding his hand. He gave it a squeeze. "It's fine. I mean it," he said, holding John's gaze in his own.

John couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock. Something about the way Sherlock was looking at him... he had never seen that emotion in Sherlock's eyes before. What was it?

That's when it hit him: could it be love? It seemed to make sense, given the physical and mental torture Sherlock must have been through for two years, for John's safety.

And after he was abducted and pushed inside the bonfire, Sherlock had saved his life, yet again, while Mary was standing far away. First degree burns were no joke. The way Sherlock was screaming his name; the panic in his eyes at that time.

"Why was I kidnapped, Sherlock?" John needed to know. "I thought those people were after you. Why did they kidnap me, then?"

Sherlock broke the gaze and looked away, freeing his hand from John's. "Uh... I don't know. Good question. Speaking of which, I need to go through the graphs and posters that I'd made for this case, at home. I'll get back to it, once we're out of here."

Sherlock's mere hesitation and the way he had abruptly changed the topic looked like a confirmation, in itself.

It was love.

"How long have you been sitting here?" asked John.

"As soon as we were allowed to visit you in this ER," said Sherlock and shrugged. "The doctor had asked us to wait outside for about an hour. He then asked us to visit you. You were still unconscious, probably sleeping, when we got here. For two hours, probably."

"Go out and eat something. I'll be alright."

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock said, bending over to grab his phone from the table beside John's bed.

John came to the conclusion that Sherlock's actions made little sense if they were not out of love for him. John tore his gaze off Sherlock's face and looked away with a small smile.

"Thanks for telling me everything," said John.

Sherlock nodded, without looking up from his phone.

"My turn to be honest," said John and took a deep breath. Sherlock looked at him with curiosity. Time to just spit it out. "I love you." It had come out in a whisper.

Sherlock gaped at John with his eyebrows raised. "Aren't you engaged?"

"No. Not technically. I was planning to end things with her, anyway. Apparently, I'm unable to stop feeling for you the way I do. Continuing this relationship is not exactly fair."

Sherlock reached out to hold John's hand again but hesitated. John was the one to interlock their fingers this time.

"Why did you go out with her, at all? I thought you had moved on when I decided to visit you in that restaurant."

John shook his head and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I didn't. I was with her because I was trying to move on. You were dead and so I thought it was time I did. I failed, obviously."

Sherlock leaned in quite close. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his lips. "What if I told you to stop trying to move on?"

John smiled again. "I already have."

Their faces came even closer and they pressed their lips together. John grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt as they kissed again. They shared a few more kisses and then Sherlock kissed John's forehead as he sat back.

"I love you too, John." That same emotion was back in his eyes.

John couldn't stop grinning. The transportation staff will be here, anytime soon, to take him out of here for a CT scan. He closed his eyes and was still smiling, feeling quite relieved, after what had felt like ages since the time Sherlock had supposedly died. "I'll break it off with Mary, as soon as I'm out of here."

"I know," said Sherlock, squeezing his shoulder.

Knowing what the future held for him and Sherlock, John felt like he could truly take some rest.

»»————><————««»»————><————««

Thanks for reading! Tags: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely, @lisbeth-kk @totallysilvergirl, etc.

(Somewhat inspired by this post).

Prompt Rest by @notjustamumj (May 13).

[a-victorian-girl]

I loved! So painful... :(

I admit I missed the Tumblr @ notifications on your fics, Lis!

Sherlock fandom.

Can you forgive me?

John feels nauseous when Sherlock gets his will. They’re allowed to open the grave to prove the great detective’s theory. Sherlock wants John to come, though he really should’ve known better, according to John. It’s their second crime scene together since Sherlock came back from his faked death, and things are strained between them. Their co-habitation is tense and awkward, which makes John itchy and half-mad with anger and sorrow equally measured.

John’s told everyone that he went to visit Sherlock’s grave twice a month, but the truth is that he’s only been there once. He couldn’t bear to see the black gravestone with Sherlock’s name on it. It doesn’t help much that the grave that’s about to be opened, is only a few metres away from Sherlock’s fake grave. John hasn’t dared to look in the direction out of fear that he’ll do something terribly stupid, like falling apart in front of half of the Yard.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock murmurs beside him, having taken a break from pestering the men with the shovels.

“If you have to ask, the answer should be obvious,” John mutters under his breath.

His hands are balled into fists in his jacket pockets, his body stiff and alert. Sherlock draws a breath and is about to speak, when Lestrade calls him over. The grave is open.

“Empty, like you said,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. “How on earth did you know?”

Sherlock speaks rapidly, leading the yarders in the direction of the man who’s faked his death, and Lestrade takes his leave.

“Aren’t we going with them?” John asks hoarsely when Sherlock stands beside him again, gazing over at where his gravestone once was.

“No, they don’t need us anymore today. I’m taking you home, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you why…”

Sherlock’s voice breaks and John looks shocked at him.

“Alright?” John asks and places a hand on Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s body shakes and John acts on instinct, forgetting all about his anger. He pulls Sherlock in for a tight embrace, relishing the sudden proximity of this madman.

“Can you forgive me, John?” Sherlock whispers with a trembling voice.

“I don’t know,” John says honestly. “But, by the state of you now, I guess it was much more to your absence than a crazy and exhilarating adventure. Tell me.”

John leads them to a secluded bench close to where John stood and begged a dead man not to be dead, two years ago. When John had told Sherlock about it, his reply had been – “I know. I heard you.”

His voice had been soft, even affectionate, but at the time, it’d just irked John. He wanted to scream and shake Sherlock and ask him why he hadn’t told John. Why he wasn’t allowed to come with him. Why he’d let him grieve like a widower. He hadn’t but it had taken all his willpower to act calm and just nod, pretending everything was business as usual. Which it wasn’t.

It should feel strange to hold Sherlock like this. Soothing him, stroking his back, whispering “shh”, and “I’ve got you”, and “I’m so glad you’re back”, and “I’ve missed you.” But the truth is, it feels utterly natural, a thing John’s longed to do for ages. Even before the Fall.

Sherlock’s head rests comfortably on John’s right shoulder, and his breathing eases, grows steadier. Time to confess.

When Sherlock’s finished telling John about the snipers, Moriarty’s unexpected suicide, his quest to hunt down and destroy the dead man’s network, ending it all by telling John about his last days away, in Serbia, captured and tortured; it’s John’s turn to break down. He weeps in Sherlock’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, letting Sherlock stroke his hair, rocking him, whispering “I had no other choice”, and “I would’ve taken you with me if I could”, and “you were always on my mind”, and “I missed you every second I was away from you.”

When they walk past the empty grave, John shudders. He turns around to locate Sherlock’s gravestone, but it’s no longer there. 

“Mycroft had it removed last week,” Sherlock says. That’s why I needed you to come along today, so that you could see it with your own eyes.”

John nods and turns to face Sherlock. He grips the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulls him closer, looking him square in the eyes.

“I forgive you,” John says softly and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @phoenix27884 @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld

[jobooksncoffee]

Thank you @lisbeth-kk , (sniff) that was just beautiful ♥️♥️

Sherlock fandom.

Can you forgive me?

John feels nauseous when Sherlock gets his will. They’re allowed to open the grave to prove the great detective’s theory. Sherlock wants John to come, though he really should’ve known better, according to John. It’s their second crime scene together since Sherlock came back from his faked death, and things are strained between them. Their co-habitation is tense and awkward, which makes John itchy and half-mad with anger and sorrow equally measured.

John’s told everyone that he went to visit Sherlock’s grave twice a month, but the truth is that he’s only been there once. He couldn’t bear to see the black gravestone with Sherlock’s name on it. It doesn’t help much that the grave that’s about to be opened, is only a few metres away from Sherlock’s fake grave. John hasn’t dared to look in the direction out of fear that he’ll do something terribly stupid, like falling apart in front of half of the Yard.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock murmurs beside him, having taken a break from pestering the men with the shovels.

“If you have to ask, the answer should be obvious,” John mutters under his breath.

His hands are balled into fists in his jacket pockets, his body stiff and alert. Sherlock draws a breath and is about to speak, when Lestrade calls him over. The grave is open.

“Empty, like you said,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. “How on earth did you know?”

Sherlock speaks rapidly, leading the yarders in the direction of the man who’s faked his death, and Lestrade takes his leave.

“Aren’t we going with them?” John asks hoarsely when Sherlock stands beside him again, gazing over at where his gravestone once was.

“No, they don’t need us anymore today. I’m taking you home, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you why…”

Sherlock’s voice breaks and John looks shocked at him.

“Alright?” John asks and places a hand on Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s body shakes and John acts on instinct, forgetting all about his anger. He pulls Sherlock in for a tight embrace, relishing the sudden proximity of this madman.

“Can you forgive me, John?” Sherlock whispers with a trembling voice.

“I don’t know,” John says honestly. “But, by the state of you now, I guess it was much more to your absence than a crazy and exhilarating adventure. Tell me.”

John leads them to a secluded bench close to where John stood and begged a dead man not to be dead, two years ago. When John had told Sherlock about it, his reply had been – “I know. I heard you.”

His voice had been soft, even affectionate, but at the time, it’d just irked John. He wanted to scream and shake Sherlock and ask him why he hadn’t told John. Why he wasn’t allowed to come with him. Why he’d let him grieve like a widower. He hadn’t but it had taken all his willpower to act calm and just nod, pretending everything was business as usual. Which it wasn’t.

It should feel strange to hold Sherlock like this. Soothing him, stroking his back, whispering “shh”, and “I’ve got you”, and “I’m so glad you’re back”, and “I’ve missed you.” But the truth is, it feels utterly natural, a thing John’s longed to do for ages. Even before the Fall.

Sherlock’s head rests comfortably on John’s right shoulder, and his breathing eases, grows steadier. Time to confess.

When Sherlock’s finished telling John about the snipers, Moriarty’s unexpected suicide, his quest to hunt down and destroy the dead man’s network, ending it all by telling John about his last days away, in Serbia, captured and tortured; it’s John’s turn to break down. He weeps in Sherlock’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, letting Sherlock stroke his hair, rocking him, whispering “I had no other choice”, and “I would’ve taken you with me if I could”, and “you were always on my mind”, and “I missed you every second I was away from you.”

When they walk past the empty grave, John shudders. He turns around to locate Sherlock’s gravestone, but it’s no longer there. 

“Mycroft had it removed last week,” Sherlock says. That’s why I needed you to come along today, so that you could see it with your own eyes.”

John nods and turns to face Sherlock. He grips the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulls him closer, looking him square in the eyes.

“I forgive you,” John says softly and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @phoenix27884 @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld

[lisbeth-kk]

A pen can be a forceful weapon!

Pen

A pen was all he had with him, in the end. Ever since Sherlock had committed suicide, by jumping from the rooftop of the hospital building, John was left with an empty mind, an empty heart, and just a void the size of a black hole in his soul.

In this miserable and alcoholic state, John was determined about one thing: he would let the whole of London - or if possible, the whole world - know the truth about everything that had led Sherlock to that suicidal state at all. Because if he had to hear one more person referring to Sherlock as a 'fake genius', he'd go insane.

John was going to make a long post on his blog, and for that, he was creating a rough draft in his notebook with a pen.

Because pen was the only weapon he was left with, now.

***

Sherlock September Challenge by @onesmallfamily

Prompt: Pen

Tagging: @lisbeth-kk , @helloliriels , @gaylilsherlock , @calaisreno , @topsyturvy-turtely .