The Inevitable: Johnlock Fanfiction

The Day She Died

*A/N: This is after season three of Sherlock BBC, after we find out that Moriarty is alive and Mary is pregnant. I don't own any of the characters, it belongs to BBC.

 He looked down through his veil of tears, his vision blurry and brain unable to process all that was unfolding in front of him. The room filled with police officers and medical examiners failed to calm him; they simply didn't exist in his mind. All that he could see was her.

 He refused to believe that she was gone, even looking down at her battered face, indistinguishable from the face of the woman who had saved him through years of unbearable suffering. The face that held deadly secrets. The face that had been laughing and joking with him hours ago, though it seemed like a lifetime ago. This was the woman that carried his child, and the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with. She made him new. 

Now he was broken again, and soon the memory of her smiling face fades until it is replaced by the cold reality of death that enveloped him until he became numb

POV: Watson

I find myself running up to the flat that Sherlock and I once shared, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's astonishment when I tear through the front door. I look around frantically and call out for Sherlock, mind blank except for the thought of my best friend. I know he is the only person that I want to see. That I need to see. We had an inseparable bond, but after my marriage, we slowly grew apart. It's been months since we've had a conversation longer than ten minutes. I almost lost him again when he shot Magnussen. If he had been exiled, I would be completely alone. Losing the two people most important to me. I don't think I would be able to cope with that.

I can hear him playing the violin. He is composing again. He says it helps him think. Sherlock hears my voice calling for him and stops playing when I arrive at the door, ajar as usual. He notices instantly my disheveled appearance and raw, red eyes. I don't wait for him to put the violin down. I just run to him and hug him. He naturally stiffens at first, but I can't stop myself from sobbing into his shoulder, forcing myself to take ragged, stuttered breaths. 

"John" he murmurs, concerned and confused. "What happened"?

"Mary," I manage to say once I lift my head up, "She was driving. There was a tree-" I stop, unable to finish.

I look up at the face of my friend, praying that he understands. I do not think I can repeat myself, not trusting my wavering voice. 

He seems to understand, and for a moment, I forget that I'm standing in Baker Street. The only thing I feel is the warmth of Sherlock and his arms encircling me tightly against his chest. After a few minutes of our hug, (I think this may be the longest we've ever embraced), he smiles softly at me and his mercurial eyes soften.

"Shall I make you a cup of tea? In the meantime," Sherlock nods towards the bathroom, "Freshen up."

A caring Sherlock is certainly not one I am used to. The only time that I'd seen him be so open with his emotions was his best man's speech. I smile a little bit when I remember the shock of Sherlock's speech turning towards murder. It was still the best speech I'd ever heard. My face slackens when I remember Mary at the wedding. Sherlock's warmth and smell (I think it's evergreen) had been overwhelming, a temporary reprieve from the tightness in my chest threatening to explode. 

I try to relax and take in deep breaths, and count to three, trying to remember Ella's breathing techniques. I try to fix myself up so that I won't seem so broken when Sherlock starts asking me questions. I'm sick of feeling weak, sick of the grief that I've felt these past two years. Hearing the sounds of the kettle boiling in the kitchen, I splash my face with water and attempt to make myself look decent, failing miserably. The redness and puffiness around my eyes are obvious and impossible to ignore. Why do you care? I just cried like a baby into a grown man's shoulder, what's even the point of pretending. Nevertheless, I walk out with a determinedly brave face, threatening to falter. 

"Don't pretend that you're fine."

Sherlock springs that on me the second I walk out of the bathroom. I sigh, even with his back turned, he can read me like a book.

He continues while adding milk to the cups, "It's worse if you hold it in." "Biscuits?"

This makes me snap. "And how would you know? Everyone thinks you're not capable of feeling emotions." I immediately feel guilty after blurting this out, and especially so when I see him turn around to look at me, silent for a moment. I remember too late that only moments earlier he had been hugging me, stroking my hair, and looking at me as if it were his own heart that was breaking into pieces.

"So I should know best." He responds quietly, and I catch a glimpse of jagged unhealed wounds written across his face. 

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant..." I trail off with my apology when I see him wave the subject away. 

He hands my cup to me, and for a moment we just stare down into our teacups. He made mine exactly the way I liked it, and I feel my heart twist again guiltily. 

The tension is thick in the room, and we are unsure of what to say to each other. We're used to spending a lot of time with each other, but that was three years ago and before my marriage and before everything changed. Now, there is a deafening silence between us, words unspoken and promises forgotten. 

"John" he starts off in his velvety voice, pausing to study me. I clench my fists tightly, bracing for the stream of questions.

"If you wish to talk about it, I'm here for you." He continues, "But if you would rather watch telly and just try to forget it, I understand."

I can feel a lump rise in my throat and blink rapidly to keep tears at bay. I've never seen Sherlock like this. I look down and start to drink the steaming tea. It burns a path down my throat, but I don't care.

He surprises me once again by getting up and putting a hand on my shoulder. I am comforted by this simple gesture. I sigh, wondering how it's possible that he can be a complete sociopath sometimes, with complete disregard of human emotions, but also be so understanding and caring other times. 

He scrutinizes my face with his molten green eyes, and silently leads me to the living room where he turns on Doctor Who, my favorite show. I arch an eyebrow. I didn't think that Sherlock Holmes bothered to remember small details like that. 

I blurt out, "Thank you for everything and for respecting my privacy. I'm just, not ready to talk right now I don't think." 

He looks at me, surprised, and then nods and stands up to leave. I am suddenly overwhelmed with fear. I can't be alone right now. Sherlock's presence is the only thing keeping me anchored, unsure of even the floor beneath my feet, and I'm afraid of what will happen if he leaves.

"Sherlock" I start, reaching up to tug at his sleeve, unsure of his response. "Will you stay and watch it with me?"

He stares at me, and I'm scared for a moment that he will leave. Sherlock slowly nods, and proceeds to sit next to me. We start watching the show, for how long I don't know. I just stare emotionlessly at the screen, with the warmth of my friend next to me.  We watch in silence since we both know there is nothing to be said. He's resting with his arm near mine, and I lean against the arm seat.

I don't know when I start to fall asleep, but it starts when my mind begins to block out everything, including the pain. When my eyes sting and it becomes a struggle to keep my eyes open. 

The last thing that I remember is Sherlock turning off the television, and he carries me to my old room upstairs.

"Good night, John" He whispers gently before tucking me in.

I drift off, feeling safe and secure, back once again in 221B Baker Street, with Sherlock playing the violin, a melancholy and soft tune. 


*A/N: I will try to be able to update once a week, but that depends on how well this story does.