Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial #322 prompt Best Case Scenario
WC: 234
CW: Murder/ Death
Original work
We grieve for you but not like people without hope. We hurt for your wife and two precious children. We pray for their comfort and peace. It hurts knowing you won't be here to watch them grow up. But not without hope. No, for we know you are in heaven. We know that you are in His Presence and His Peace.
No, it isn't the best case scenario. That would be you still being here with us, more importantly, with them. Still, you are in a much better place and a much better situation than those who celebrate your killing. Praise God there is no sadness in heaven. You won't ever know, through the awesome eternity that you are in, no, you won't know about the hate that is exposed by your murder.
They do, unfortunately. Your wife, your family, friends, followers. So we pray fervently for them and for your children for the internet lives forever. One day, they may see the horrible things that were said about their daddy.
We will take it up, your mission. They silenced your voice but that only amplified it. Several people are already planning to pick up your dropped microphone. More will surely follow. I promise you didn't die for nothing.
Your legacy will live on. Through those you touched with the truth, through those that will follow after, through your precious children.
"I cheated on Mary," said John, as his eyes welled up, and in came the monologue to a non-existent person, presumably Mary.
Sherlock followed John's gaze and stopped at an empty corner of the sitting room of their flat. Well, his flat, technically, because John wasn't here anymore.
All he could conclude was that John was not okay.
"Who you think I am, is the man I want to be," John continued.
Sherlock turned to look from the empty corner to John's face, pressing his lips together with utter heartbreak. Sherlock had always admired John's medical skills, his combat skills, his sense of authority, his sense of humour, and the list could go on forever.
Mary was not even in the picture when Sherlock began to look up to him and admire him.
Was that not enough?
The image of John punching and kicking him in the ribs flashed before him. Of course it wasn't enough, thought Sherlock and chuckled mirthlessly in his mind.
Probably because he wasn't a woman, or not human enough for John's liking.
However, anyone with half a brain would laugh at the second possibility, given the fact that he wouldn't have been sitting on this chair if he hadn't revived himself that day, after getting shot by John's own wife.
When John buried his face in his hand and burst into tears, Sherlock thought it didn't matter anymore. He got up as carefully as he could with his wounded back to approach John slowly across the room.
Sherlock felt as though he was in a lion's den, and any wrong move could prove to be fatal. Still, mustering enough courage and physical strength, he approached John and carefully placed his right arm around John's shoulder, and rested his palm on John's nape. He placed his left hand on John's other shoulder and held him gently in his arms. Surprisingly, John not only allowed himself to be hugged, but he also placed his head on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock didn't care about his shirt getting wet because of John's uncontrollable tears.
As Sherlock continued to hold John like he was the most precious thing in the world, he came to a conclusion: perhaps he was wrong to put John on sort of a pedestal for all these years. John had a plethora of qualities, but seeing him through a rose-tinted lens most of the time had been an imperfect sign. An imperfect way of viewing this man.
Ironic, for someone who was a professional detective.
John wasn't perfect; he had a dark side too. The thought was oddly comforting.
Sherlock just wished he hadn't found this out the hard way. But his love for John was far too much to waver, even after everything.
Sherlock pulled John even closer as he buried his nose in John's hair, inhaling his natural scent. Their breathing rate had become in-sync.
Sherlock reluctantly let go of John after some time. John gazed up at him with his beautiful, deep blue eyes, dampened with tears.
Sherlock decided to share his conclusions with him. "It’s not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling, from time to time, that we might all just be human."
John raised his eyebrows at that with a faint smile. "What, even you?"
Sherlock was not amused at this taunt. "No."
John's smile faded and he just blinked at Sherlock wordlessly.
"Even you."
A moment passed. "Cake?" asked John, all of a sudden.
"Cake." Sherlock nodded.
As he walked across the room to grab his coat to go out with John, Sherlock decided that being John's friend again was the next best thing. The other option, the unthinkable one, was completely off the table now. It never was on the table for John.
Sherlock sighed heavily and wistfully.
Probably for the best, he thought, as he and John walked out of the apartment building to have some cake for his birthday.
John’s always thought that both Holmes brothers were inclined to strive towards perfection. He’s wrong, of course. As Sherlock so often informs him, John’s an idiot. By now, John doesn’t find it as insulting as he did in the beginning of their acquaintanceship. Sherlock uses the word more like an endearment these days, truth be told.
“So, what’s your perception on perfection compared to Mycroft’s then?” John asks, his voice a bit slurred from the mulled wine he’s had his fair share of.
Sherlock rolls his eyes automatically when his brother’s name is mentioned, but they have a soft expression. He leans back in his chair, his right foot dangling in front of the table.
Totally relaxed, John thinks.
“Well, Mycroft is, as you know, a pompous arse and has an obsession when it comes to symmetry. I’m sure it’s a name for it, a diagnosis of sort,” Sherlock smirks.
John chuckles and sips his warm brew. He nudges Sherlock’s foot, beckoning him to continue. Sherlock goes still, his eyes fixed on where John’s foot rests against his own. Had John been sober, he’d probably withdrawn his foot, but now he lets it stay.
“Sherlock? You alright?” John inquires softly.
John’s voice seems to get Sherlock out of his daze, and he continues talking, and lets his toes stroke against John’s foot. An electrical jolt runs up John’s leg and sets as numerous sparkles in his stomach, Sherlock’s deep voice adding to the sensation.
“As you know, I am able to appreciate beauty, but to me symmetry is boring. I need something else to keep me interested. Quite the opposite of what my brother prefers; imperfection is what I find fascinating.”
John basks in Sherlock’s proximity but is acutely aware of his words and frowns.
“What?” Sherlock asks with narrowed eyes.
“You can’t stand imperfection, Sherlock! That sign with the miss-spelling last month, for instance, or any typos…”
Sherlock interrupts him, waving his hands dismissively, sitting up in his chair leaning closer to John. John misses the warmth from Sherlock’s foot, but Sherlock’s gaze makes John’s neck heat.
“I’m not speaking of that type of flaws, John. It’s imperfection in nature, architecture, art, music, but most of all in people that fascinates me to no end. And those who are able to surprise me on a regular basis…”
Sherlock trails off focusing his eyes on John’s lips, which makes the heat on John’s neck creep up to his face.
“What about those people?” John whispers unable to divert his eyes from Sherlock’s perfect lips.
“Their imperfection and not to mention their adeptness to surprise even me, is nothing but life altering. A thing I find myself unable to live without,” Sherlock murmurs.
When Sherlock’s hand cups John’s face, John closes his eyes and leans into the touch which sends a tingling sensation through his entire body.
“To me you are perfect with all your imperfections,” Sherlock whispers.
John sighs, opens his eyes and reaches out to touch Sherlock’s face, stroking his thumb over a perfect chiselled cheekbone. Their eyes meet and both move at the same time, and finally their lips meet. The position is strenuous, and Sherlock isn’t close enough, so John does the only sensible thing and breaks the kiss, much to Sherlock’s disquiet.
“Come here,” John murmurs, pulling on Sherlock’s sleeve.
Being a genius, Sherlock understands only seconds later and climbs into John’s chair, straddling John’s thighs, cradling his face and finally lowering his head to claim John’s lips once more.
In which I offer your just over 900 words of the softest retirement ACD Johnlock with a little dash of resolved angst.
@flashfictionfridayofficial
Ten years.
I had thought that a full decade—give or take a few weeks—would have fully doused the fire of my feelings for my friend and colleague. But as I walked through the front door of that Sussex cottage and was guided out into the back garden by a formidable looking woman who promised tea, I caught sight of Holmes and the flames roared painfully within me.
“Watson!”
He strode up the garden to meet me, hands out, invitation to an embrace modified to a handshake as he reached me. I clasped his hand in both of mine. “Holmes, old fellow, good to see you.”
“Come, sit. The weather is fine. You’re warm enough?”
I nodded and sat at the little table in the corner of the patio. Bees buzzed in the honeysuckle and jasmine that grew intertwined behind and beside us.
“I was happy to receive your letter.” Holmes smiled. “It has been too long, old friend. I wonder that you have not visited before.”
“I wonder that you never asked me to before.” I spoke more sharply than I had intended. I sighed. “I’m sorry, Holmes. I don’t mean to be snappish.”
He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Ah, you—”
A rattle of china from the housekeeper silenced him. She informed us that my bag was in the spare room and that she would be back after the weekend, and then we were alone.
“You have an open invitation, my dear.” Holmes frowned at me. “Have you a wife waiting for you at home?”
I almost choked on my tea. “No, Holmes, I do not have a wife.”
His face brightened immediately. “Then you can stay as long as you like?”
I laughed and shook my head. “I have a surgery, which demands my presence on Monday.”
I leaned back in my chair and surveyed Holmes’s garden. There were flowerbeds and a lawn with a path across it, and a small orchard of apple, pear and plum where I could see three beehives nestled between the trees. I wondered at Holmes asking if I had a wife. Was it possible that he still had not deduced the sentiment I harboured for him?
I turned to study his profile, the angles as familiar and striking as ever, although perhaps a little softer. “Your bees keep you busy?”
“They are fascinating creatures, Watson!” He looked sidelong at me, catching me watching him. He smiled. “If you would indulge an old man, I would gladly tell you about my studies of their behaviour.”
“Old!” I laughed. “Less of that. You are two years younger than me, and I do not consider myself old yet.”
“You ought to retire before you do begin to feel old.” He caught my gaze again. “Sell your practice.”
“Do you have another distant cousin in need of one?”
He threw back his head and barked a laugh. “I would be happy to ask on your behalf,” he said, a grin splitting his face. “Let history repeat itself.” He looked away and spoke more quietly. “Buy Dr Watson’s practice from him so that he will move back in with me.”
It felt like my heart stilled and the bees stopped their relentless buzz.
“Holmes—”
“I apologise. I have given you so many imperfect signs that I should not be surprised that you failed to read them correctly.”
“Holmes—”
He looked at me then, his smile slipping into sadness. “Are you shocked that I would be so selfish?”
“Holmes! What imperfect signs?”
His expression turned indulgent, the way it used to when he was about to explain how myriad seemingly unconnected facts and observations led to an unshakable conclusion.
“I told you I had no love for women. You did not infer anything from my omission of any mention of men. I took your arm everywhere we went. Yes, I bought your old practice under a cousin’s name when I wanted you to live with me in Baker Street again. I… My dear, oh my dear John, need I go on?”
When the bees resumed their busy plunder of the honeysuckle I found to my surprise that Holmes was kneeling on the flagstone between my feet and his hand was warm on my cheek. On his fingers I felt the wetness of tears I had long thought myself incapable of shedding.
“Sherlock, I…”
His other hand left my knee—I had been unaware of its warmth until I felt the cold of its removal—and caressed my other cheek. I made the smallest movement, leaning forwards slightly, and he met me in a soft kiss.
He pulled back too soon for me and I followed it to claim another. After, his forehead bumped mine. “I conclude that we are two of the biggest fools who ever walked the Earth.”
“No more imperfect signs,” I said, smiling as he delivered another gentle press of his lips to mine. “You must tell me plainly what you want. Don’t wait for me to deduce it from observations.”
He pulled back and took my hands. We both rose a little stiffly. “When the 11.20am train leaves for London tomorrow, I want your seat to be empty.”
I could not yet trust my own senses. “Forgive me for asking, but do you truly mean that you want me to retire and live here with you?”
“Wire your colleagues this afternoon to cover your patients on Monday. Sell your practice. Live here with me.”
His arms came up around my back, I laid my head on his shoulder, and he held me while I shed tears of joy.
“It said five miles. You missed the turn.” Grandma tells Grandpa.
“Mary Alice,” my brother and I exchanged a look. When he uses both her names, things are about to get serious, “I did not because it said ten.”
We can hear her eyes roll. “Bud,” his name is William but she never calls him that, “it was five miles. You never pay attention.”
“Mary Alice, that would be easier without your constant talking.”
“If I wasn't keeping you on course, we would constantly be lost.” Her arms across her chest.
He huffs. “Kids, did you see the sign?”
Now we know better then to get involved in the middle of their fights.
After sharing a look with my brother, I reply, “No grandpa.”
“Leave the children alone, Bud. It isn't their fault we have to turn around.”
“We don't!”
We did. After a few minutes more, he admits defeat. Not in words but by pulling into a filling station and turning around. My grandma, knowing she has won, wisely chooses to stay silent. She is smiling though.
We are heading home after a summer spent with them. They have made this trip twice a year for five or six years by this point. It didn't occur to me then. Only years later did I realize that he must have deliberately missed the exit. That they both must enjoyed the bickering.
Another sign, this one unable to be misinterpreted. A tombstone. My grandpa’s name etched in it. William ‘Bud’ Brown. Two dates. We walk slowly behind our Grandma. Our mom and aunt support her. Our uncles surround use.
“Fifty years,” she softly says, her voice dull with grief, “fifty years I shared my life with him. What am I to do now?”
A year later we are back at the military cemetery to lay her to rest beside him. She loved him, there was no doubt about that. We simply misunderstood the signs.
