Side of the Angels [WHOLOCK]

Side of the Angels

A/N: I've literally been so swamped with exams and coursework that I've only had time to write a oneshot. I had planned for this to be a longer story but I think it's just as emotional and dramatic as a oneshot. So, yeah, I hope you all enjoy it, and I apologise in advance for the tears and heartbreak this story is likely to cause.

P.S: The video above is my favourite piece of music. I had it in mind when I was writing this oneshot, and I feel it really dramatises the emotion that is written into this story. Listen to it when you're reading this, or don't listen to it at all, I don't mind. But, if you do, hopefully you'll understand why I love it so much.

[Sherlock's POV]

It started with a coffee.

An ordinary coffee on an ordinary street corner in London. After taking the last sip from his stained, crinkled takeaway cup, John decided that we deserved a break from the hustle and bustle of the capital. Of course, I told him that I could never leave London except for urgent business, and, to that, he laughed. Oh, his laugh. Who'd have though that me, Sherlock Holmes, could be so sentimental about a laugh. But that's what John did, you see. He opened my eyes to all kinds of possibilities. And, that's why I agreed to go on holiday with him.

It carried on with a traffic jam.

We'd been on the road for hours, stuck in what seemed to be an endless queue of traffic. Cars were sounding their horns and drivers were making obscene hand gestures at each other; it was exactly why we took cabs everywhere. We both knew we'd never make it to the airport in time for our flight, but neither of us wanted to be the first to say it out loud. John had been so looking forward to this break and it was heartbreaking to see how disappointed he was. I sighed. If he wanted a holiday, he was going to get a holiday. I made a spur of the moment decision and took the next exit towards a somewhat familiar location. That's all it was; a simple exit. An exit I would regret for the rest of my life.

It continued with a memory.

We arrived outside the pub in Baskerville just as the sun was setting. Instead of the towering skyscrapers that littered the London skyline, were found ourselves staring at row upon row of bright green trees, glowing in the last remnants of the day's sunlight. The sky was a painted canvas of pinks and oranges, and was perfectly reflected in the glistening lake that sat in front of the forest. It was picturesque; taken straight out of a fairytale. John said it was better than our planned destination, but I knew he was just saying that out of kindness. Baskerville, more than likely, still made his bones shudder; after all, last time we visited the village, he was exposed to poisonous smoke that made him hallucinate. After that, he'd suffered terrible nightmares every night. I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to take him back. I still don't.

It carried on with curiosity. 

The following day, we decided to explore. After walking for hours along narrow, winding paths and through quilted, green fields, we came to the edge of the forest- the forest that had given John nightmares for the past three years. It was still light, so I didn't see any reason why we couldn't walk through it safely. John was apprehensive. I was ignorant. I practically dragged him through the woods, doing a typical 'Sherlock' and complaining every time he said he felt uncomfortable or nervous. Stupid me and my stupid lack of emotions. John had agreed to walk through that forest because I wanted to; he did it for me. But, I was too imbecilic to realise.

It continued with heartbreak.

Fed up of John's whining, I walked on ahead. Obviously, being much taller than John, my stride was longer and I reached the edge of the forest before he did. I turned around to tell him off for dawdling, and he replied with his middle finger and a smirk. I chuckled. It didn't matter that we'd been arguing for the past twenty minutes; John never failed to make me smile. I turned around to apologise for my complaining, because I knew he would appreciate that from me. As I turned, everything froze. It was at that point that my life ended. It was at that point that the world I had grown to love and appreciate came crashing down around me. Because it was at that point when John vanished, leaving just a simple, stone statue of an angel in the place where he had stood.

It carried on with panic.

For the first time in my life, my eyes were flooded with tears. The hairs on my neck stood on end and a swarm of goosebumps laminated my skin. I couldn't believe what was happening. Time stood still as I tried to scream his name, but the inside of my mouth was missing of any moisture and a croak was the only sound that could escape me. I spent hours and hours gallivanting through the forest and the fields and the village, clinging on to even the tiniest bit of hope that I could still find John. It was only after two weeks of constant searching that I gave up. I'd lost John. And, in loosing John, I had lost the only life that I had ever loved living.

It continued with a visit.

The flat was a cold silence without John; only the occasional sound of melancholy notes from my violin filled the rooms. My heart had once again been covered by a layer of ice that could never be melted. I'd become bitter and unloveable, just as I had been before John came into my life. Then, one day, I had a strange visit from a fumbling man with floppy hair and an unusual bow-tie. He told me his name was 'The Doctor' and that he could explain what had happened to John. It was a reality I didn't want to hear. But, I needed closure, and so I let him explain.

It carried on with a chance.

The Doctor told me not to risk it. He'd been forced to watch his best friend do exactly what I was about to do and he didn't want to see it happen again. But, I had no choice. I had to see John again, and I would do literally anything to ensure that happened. I knew there was no guarantee I'd end up in the same place or time as John, but I had to take the chance. So, I drove myself back to Baskerville and ventured into the very forest that had been the source of my despair and suffering just months earlier. And, that's when I saw it. The angel that had taken John away for me. I walked towards it and looked into its cold, dead eyes. And, then I did it. I blinked.

It ended with a hat and coat.

Victorian London isn't that different to twenty-first century London, really. Just less cars and more smoke. I even bought myself a deerstalker and greatcoat to merge into society. Every day, without fail, I walk through London, trying my best to avoid drunks on bicycles and children clumsily carrying chimney sweep brushes, until I reach the same coffee house, on the same street corner where John and I first discussed that holiday. I did that every day for two years without luck; no sign of my blogger anywhere. But, even right now, as I make my journey to the coffee house, I haven't lost any hope. I'm just as hopeful as I was when I let the Weeping Angel send me back in time. How can I lose hope when there's even the slightest possibility that I'll see John again?

It starts again with a coffee.

As I open the door to the coffee house, I bump into someone exiting the establishment, and fall flat on the pavement. I drag myself up off the floor, raising my head to look this person in the eye and getting ready to yell at him within an inch of his life. And, that's when I see him. Exactly the same as he always had been, except the new feature of a moustache sitting neatly above his upper lip. Time stood still; I couldn't believe what I was seeing. After a good few minutes of not managing to let any sound escape my lips, I finally gather together some words.

"Coffee?" I ask, flooded with disbelief.

"I thought you'd never ask," John replied, his face swamped with a beaming smile.