Courtney's Final FanFiction

“My friend, Sherlock Holmes is…”

“Damn this window!” taking all his frustration out, he punched the pane. Eventually sacrificing a shoelace to tie the latch together; muttering something about complaining to the landlady downstairs.

For a moment he thought of Ms Hudson, not the lard of woman downstairs. He could feel her smile, full of concern. He hated it on her.  He couldn’t go back the flat on Baker Street.

Not yet.

Empty walls stared back; shrinking around him. It was simple; he had been used to simple once. His gun had returned to the dresser and his cane had skulked back to his side where it had belonged, before all of this.

“Right, time for bed” he announced before dark images clouded his mind. He had seen them too often already, looping inside his eyelids. Bloodshed, and the crack of bone on pavement. The war had faded from keeping him up, instead, just one man and the glaze of blue eyes on a crimson-stained face.

He cringed at the image, cursing it, “No, no! Not again, not…” he curled on the end of the single bed, “again” he crowned his fingertips and buried his forehead in them.

“…Sherlock”

“John?”

 Light came into focus around the figure that had propelled John to his feet; his cane in a ready swing.

“…You”

No, it had to be a fake, him standing there. Just like every other time. Poised, polished, perfectly fine…

“John?” cautiously the cane lowered; a miracle? The only one who could pull a miracle like this was him.

Miracle? He had to die to prove a miracle.

“How is this-I-I took, your pulse-“questions flourished, battling each other to be asked. He shook his head in disbelief and more at his own anger that was growing by the second.

“No! No! You can’t do this to me Sherlock! You’re dead! I saw you! I SAW YOU DIE!”

“John, I know you won’t forgive me for this…” Despite the dry fury John couldn’t help but chuckle, “…I’ve hurt you” Pain? What did he know of it?

 “Hurt me?” a hallucination. Brought on by insomnia, drinking, drugs, something!  “Hurt is an understatement, Sherlock. You rang me, told me that you, that everything was a lie! And then told me to watch WHILE YOU JUMPED OFF A FUCKING FIVE STORY BUILDING!”

“Well, only four, basement doesn’t count”

“SHERLOCK!” heavy silence fell over them, allowing some bleaker thoughts come to light, “What you did, what you made me go through” cracking plastic filled the space as the cane fell discarded “-What they said about you-“

 “I saw”

“You mean observed?” Deadpan retorts were all he could manage while withholding anger, “I bet this seems hilarious to you! Faking your own death then coming back like nothing’s happened. So, what? Say you’re sorry and we’re fine again?”

“As I said, I don’t expect forgiveness. This is hardly an amusing experience; it wasn’t part of the plan” Sherlock placed his hands behind his back; every movement carried a calm offense.

“Plan? What plan?”

“Moriarty’s Intel, rotting from inside; bring the entire web to its knees by pulling strings. Simple -Without Moriarty playing puppeteer“ his eyes basked in triumph, seeping into the corner of his mouth, “With some help from Mycroft-”

“Mycroft?”

“And Molly.”

“-Fake autopsy”

“Almost complete.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you”

“Get out”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice made his ears cower as he hobbled for the door. Two options, get out or be thrown out, “John!” rage blinded him, infecting his reasoning.

He went for the gun in the dresser.

 “-John, Listen to me. I never really left. I was always following you, keeping an eye out in case any of the operatives found out I was alive. They would come here first” Despite the army-issue pistol directed at him; there were no signs of fear in the silhouette.

“Me? Why?”

“You are my friend.”

“Friend,” his sneer spat into his words, ”YOU DON’T DO THIS TO FRIENDS SHERLOCK”

John’s outbursts had rendered Sherlock silent. John could feel his eyes study his every inch, making those damned deductions about the cursed few months he had spent here.

“You’re bitter about me leaving”

“Bitter? You had me thinking you were dead. Faked an autopsy to take down a dead man’s syndicate!” His arm slowly giving into shakes as the weight of the revolver seemed to gain. “Dear god, what they said about you, the papers, telly, blogs. I had to shut mine down-“

“If I’d told you the truth they wouldn’t have believed I was dead. I am sorry, for what I did to you. But understand,” the pistol to jumped back into attention as he daringly stepped forward.

“What?”

“If you were bitter, you wouldn’t be as angry as you are, John Watson. Bitterness is a paralytic. I felt it as I stood watching you on the ledge, the only reason I had for stepping off it, was the one begging me not to.  A viscous motivator.”

“What are you telling me Sherlock?”

“Alone; alone was all I had, it protected me; such sentiment” He whispered, “You are my friend, John. My only friend. The more you yell and tell me to leave; the more you convince yourself that this is a dream or another drunken stupor to evade even the possibility that I am really standing here so you won’t be as upset when you wake up, tells me I’m not alone.”

“Alone” John echoed, resonating within his memories “I was so alone” he studied Sherlock’s face, every detail, “The flat, Ms Hudson, everything was wrong without you” He was fine, he was here, “Why?”

“I told you why-“

“No I mean why, why does it hurt so much without you? Why am I not furious that you lied to me? Dammit Sherlock!”

The gun crashed to the ground as overwhelming emotions swept him away. Falling to his knees he curled on his hands, gripping the floor for support. Sobs carried, echoing outside the empty, bolted apartment.