I'm deleting this.
It's been a little over a year, now.
No one reads this blog anymore. It doesn't matter, anyway. I think this will be my last post. There's no reason to try and continue when there's no point. So, I'm done. The last thing I'll say here, the last thing that I'll leave, is something someone told me a long time ago... I thought it was stupid at the time, but really it's the wisest thing anyone has ever said.
Alone is what I have, alone protects me.
John stares at the entry for several long moments before finally submitting it. Over the past year he'd typed thousands of words into the box. Thousands of things that he never got to say to Sherlock, that he never got to tell him. He'd always backspaced over each and every letter, shut down his laptop, went to Sherlock's room, laid in his bed, inhaled, and slept, wrapped up in the man who'd brought him to life.
After over a year he still closed his eyes and saw Sherlock's eyes, wide and glassy and lifeless. He watched Sherlock fall in slow motion, over and over, never anything he could do to stop it. He cradled his bashed and bloody head and felt his wrist for a pulse that wasn't there.
He could still see the bright red of Sherlock's blood against his pale skin, smell it thick in his lungs, feel it crawling all over him. Sometimes, ridiculously, he opens his eyes and sees the Sherlock laying on the couch or sitting in the chair or shooting at the wall with his revolver, exclaiming "bored, bored, bored!" over and over again. It's impossible and it hurts more than anything, but sometimes he can lose himself in the delusions, if only for a second.
John sighs heavily, shutting his laptop and moving to sit on his bed. It's midday, and he knows he'll never be able to sleep now, even if he wishes for dreams (for though there are so many of Sherlock falling, there are others of them, together, laughing. Happy.) He barely sleeps as it is, just a few hours each night—still, he'll lay down and daydream, hopefully about their giggling at crime scenes, bantering over who needs to go buy the milk, watching crap telly. Anything.
His phone chimes. He gives it a disinterested glance, but opens it. Probably Mrs. Hudson (who'd only recently acquired a mobile), Harry (who would never leave him alone), or Lestrade (who it hurt to be around, let alone talk to).
Look at your blog, John.
SH
He stares. Blinks. Pinches himself. No, he's awake.
His heart clenches. What? Who would do that—do this, who would make a joke out of this, a mockery out of—out of him. Or could it be—? No. It hurt to even hope.
He stood mechanically and walked to his laptop, flipping it open and pressing on the power.
He glanced down at the text again, phone still gripped tightly in his left hand.
SH
Sherlock Holmes.
His laptop loaded too slowly. His internet lagged. The blog took too long to come up.
1 comment
He stared, then clicked.
Wrong. Friends protect people.
Anonymous 3 August 18:95
John's phone fell to the floor with a loud clatter—he scrambled after it, fingers fumbling over the buttons as he tried to type his text. He'd done this a thousand of times before—sent so many texts for Sherlock to murderers and Lestrade and Mycroft—and it was strange that now he was somehow incapable of the simple act.
His hands, for the first time in over a year, were steady.
Sherlock?
He waited eleven minutes for a reply; nothing.
If this is some kind of sick joke, Mycroft. I swear to god
Seven minutes:
...Sherlock?
Three minutes:
I'm coming to see you.
Thirty seconds:
Please show up
Just as he's climbing into a taxi:
At least I know you're alive.
Right?
Nearly there:
Hahah, you didn't answer my question.
Two minutes:
Nevermind. I'm here, Sherlock.
Six minutes:
At least respond.
Twenty-three minutes:
...Right. Cheers to false hope, then.
Four minutes:
...Don't leave me behind.
Sherlock read the text, feeling pathetic from his hiding place behind the tree.
He can see John, crouched in front of his grave, a hand caressing his tombstone. He tried to will his legs to move, tried to force himself forward, but it was hopeless. He was shaking, his body betraying him.
John sat there until nearly midnight. Sherlock stayed cloaked by darkness and the trees protection, did not get his breath back until John was long gone, and never received another text.
He logged onto John's blog at a cafe the next day, and read the new post.
Untitled
He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.
...
This story was fully inspired by a youtube video I found months ago and continue watching to this day. Just type "Untitled Sherlock BBC PandarChu" into the youtube search engine to find this gorgeous masterpiece.