Love:The Power of Life and Death- Johnlock

The Depression

He sat there, alone. John sat in his armchair clutching onto Sherlock’s deerstalker.

“Why is it always the hat photograph?”

“What hat is it anyway?”

“Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?”

“You can’t stalk a deer with a hat. What am I supposed to do? Throw it?”

“Is it like some sort of death Frisbee?”

“It’s got flaps. Ear flaps. It’s an ear hat John!”

John smiled at the memory of the detective’s frustration. Only the great Sherlock Holmes could be frustrated with a hat. The Doctor’s eyes flooded with tears, threatening to spill; oh how he missed that man, his dark clotted curls across his forehead, his perfect cheekbones that could make any person-male or female- go weak, his reserved nature that made him so mysterious and of course, his brilliant mind.

It had never been the same for John since the fall; it was as if part of John was missing and there was only one person who could complete him. Sherlock Holmes. After witnessing his best friend jump from the top of the hospital, John was certain of his feelings towards the detective. It’s true when they say that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

The doctor listened and watched the rain fall outside. Some droplets fell with great speed, crashing onto the window aggressively; others were waiting to fall from the edge of the roof, growing more and more each second, until they fell. Suddenly John saw a dove land on the windowsill, using the roof for shelter against the rain. Its objective failed though as the bird broke the fall of the raindrops falling every now and then from the edge of the roof. The blogger walked closer to the window, watching the bird. He saw the delicate feathers of the dove absorb the rain, softening their fall.

*Buzz buzz*. John reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

‘John, I appreciate that this will be a difficult day for you. Come for dinner later, we can have a catch up.’-MH

John’s puzzled face stared at the screen. What day was it today? He glanced at the calendar beside the mirror, above the fireplace; the doctor was struck with a pounding heart and weakened legs, threatening to give in to his weight. The man stumbled towards his armchair, gently picking up the deerstalker that was resting on it and he placed it on the empty seat opposite him. He fell into his chair helplessly, his mind spinning and his pulse continuing to accelerate. John looked back at the phone trapped tightly in his tense hands.

‘Thank you for the invitation but I’m busy today.’-JW

John sent the lie to Mycroft as he endeavored to compose himself. “Three years!” He screamed “Three bloody years!”  He became helpless in his chair, sobbing violently as his memories haunted him. He remembered his first speech he gave to Sherlock’s gravestone:

“You told me once that you weren’t a hero… um… there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human… human being I’ve ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.

I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

Look, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!”

“Are you alright dear?” Mrs Hudson came in, carrying a hot cup of tea for the weeping blogger. John replied with a single nod, with his head in his hands, a phone in his lap and a detective in his heart.