#post-reichenbach fic

[pathologxst]

Finally updated the thing. :)

If preferred: ao3

[scullyseviltwin]

And in handy, chart form. (Eff you, Powerpoint, for not accepting Reichenbach as a word. And eff me for not realizing that before I posted it.)

(Also, so bad at screengrab that I have a mousehover explanation... oh damn, oh this was major fail.)

[madlori]

So far, this is my favorite post-Reichenbach fic.

Title: Too Empty To Share Author: elethoniel Pairing(s): Implied Sherlock/John. Very brief John/OFC. Rating: PG, only for a couple of swear words. Words: 3,221 (I knew it was complete when I did a word count! :D) Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock and John belong to Mofftiss, the BBC, and ACD. This idea is also taken from a novel by Ceceila Ahern. That belongs to her beautiful brain. More notes at the end. Warnings: Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall! Also there is magical realism, angst, and a happy ending! This is the first fic I've written in the Sherlock fandom, and the first I've written in years. Beta'd by myself, if there are any errors, please let me know :) Summary: John finds himself in the place where the lost things go.

[quinfish]

I'm fixing my wilting heart with fanfic

Deal with it.

Not even taking the time to edit it or anything. Just needed to get it out lest I dream of nothing else ever again.

One Last Miracle

John Watson forgot many things in the three years after the Fall.

He forgot what it was like to sleep soundly through the night. Now, when he is feeling particularly dour, he takes a moment before bed to guess when, exactly, he will wake up trembling, gasping a name that he still can’t make himself say out loud.

He forgot how to take a deep breath. These days it’s like every inhalation is a tiny battle, a wheeze or a gasp and just enough to keep one foot moving in front of the other but not quite enough for anything more.

He forgot the joys of music for its own sake. It’s just a reminder that digs under his skin, now. Mrs. Hudson stopped listening to the radio when she saw his limp return.

People told him to forget Sherlock. He told them, politely, to sod off.

With no more cases to take up his time, he grabs every shift at the clinic that is healthy, and a few more. He has to be able to pay for the flat somehow, and he’ll be damned before he lets anyone else tamper with Sherlock’s dominion. He hasn’t moved anything he hasn’t absolutely had to since the Fall. Anything that could rot and stink was discarded, but everything else remains pristine. He cleans regularly, unable to bear the thought of Sherlock’s tools or his violin or his damned skull gathering dust.

And sometimes he manages to forget the Fall, passes the plunging of his heart as the greatest man he’d ever known flew down as a nightmare, like the specters of Afghanistan. He fills the kettle for two, and braces himself for limbs next to the jam.

But there’s always milk, and there’s always beans, and Sherlock has been gone for three years.

He can’t say dead, not since the funeral. He can’t even think it. He’s waiting for his miracle.

Because Sherlock made him watch and he’ll never forget that, and that is closer to hell than war could ever be.

For that, Sherlock owes him a miracle.

The bell rings, and for a fraction of a second, John thinks ‘client.’ But it passes and he knows he should answer the door but he’s spent the day being vomited upon by children and he got winded coming up the stairs and he just can’t. He is dimly aware of the door opening and closing, off in the distance. He closes his eyes.

It’ll be a visitor for Mrs. Hudson. No one’s come for him since he blackened Lestrade’s eye when the DI came by and tried to apologize.

The Fall plays again in his head, just as it has for three years. He’s still looking, hoping to finally observe something he could have done to change it. It has been a long, long time since he cried, but his breath gets shorter, louder.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs. The knock at the door gets him, though. He considers not doing it, but he stands and limps over to answer it.

He’s been falling for three years and he finally lands, hard, at the top of the stairs into 221B. A short eternity passes and he’s gibbering something, his hands pressed against his eyes because he can’t be seeing what he’s seeing.  He’d forgotten the smell of Sherlock Holmes but it all comes back and he screams and his knuckles ache after they meet those impossible cheekbones at velocity.

“You bastard,” he hears himself shouting around the sobs that rack through him, forcing him to his knees. “You absolute bastard, why now?”

There is a moment of hesitation, and then he’s wrapped by arms that ought to be buried and he wonders when he’ll wake up.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, and John could never have forgotten that voice. “I’m so sorry.”

John’s head fits easily into the curve of Sherlock’s neck as he gasps and refamiliarizes himself with the taste of air. Something warm falls damp into his hair.

“I’m three years late,” Sherlock says, and his voice is thick and hoarse. “But I believe I owe you a miracle.”

And John Watson remembers.