Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Sounds of an Artist	By : darkangel1210 Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3980 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, nor am I making any profit from writing this.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
Sounds of an Artist
Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them. Neither do I own the lyrics that are in this part; they are the sole property of Dinah Washington.
A/N: And now the end is near… and so I face the final curtain…
Last chapter of the story, everyone – a really big thank you and hugs to all of you, whether you reviewed or just read the story. Thanks for stopping by! :-)
This probably won’t be my last piece, not with the whirlwind that is my imagination at the moment, but it’s going to be hard to top this one I think (especially for my first ever Sherlock fic)… Nothing less than well thought-out plot is deserved for my readers. So maybe you’ll see me again soon (with Sherlock and John of course).
By the way, I have amended the dates within the story. I had a quick re-read and found they were slightly off so this has been fixed. If you spot anything else that needs amending please let me know.
Warnings: angst, emotional trauma, hurt-comfort.
Part Ten
Sherlock’s POV
The morning of Sunday the fifteenth of December arrived and John’s prediction that his influenza would only last for a few days turned out to be startlingly accurate, although Sherlock wasn’t sure why he was surprised because John was, after all, a doctor and an expert in his field. Since the night that Sherlock had ceased to vomit he’d found that his health had steadily improved; he could now stand on his own without support and was starting to regain the strength in the muscles of his arms and legs. In fact, he was now able to walk around the apartment with a liveliness that he hadn’t felt since his return to the flat. A small amount of disappointment was aimed at his core strength which was lagging behind the rest of his recovery but, considering what he’d just been though, completely understandable.
Eating, not something that he had a habit of keeping track of at the best of times, was also making a much needed return; dry toast to begin with and then the addition of the ever-predictable scrambled eggs, purposefully overcooked because he couldn’t stomach anything of a sloppy consistency without it making him want to retch. And, perhaps the most important milestone of all, his first cup of tea since his illness began, made just the way he liked it by John’s steady hands and sipped slowly, ensuring each draw was swirled around his mouth to be savoured before being swallowed by a throat that no longer pained him.
When it was physically apparent that he was getting better, John had made it very clear that it was time for him to have a bath, shower, anything really, to rid himself of the sweat and grime that was a usual accompaniment to any bodily sickness. And that too had been a welcome relief. He’d never been particularly fastidious when he and John had first moved in together, often traipsing about the flat in his dressing gown and, when the mood took him, his bed sheets. But cleanliness had always been at the forefront of his mind (there wasn’t a chance that he would allow his own body to contaminate a crime scene if he could prevent it), and to go even two days without a proper wash was an uncomfortable experience to say the least, let alone the four that it turned out to be. John had been on hand to assist in case he was needed, Sherlock opting for a shower so he could continue to build up his core strength, making full use of the privacy glass so John could remain in the bathroom with him while he washed.
Both of them had been quiet in the twenty-two minutes, seven seconds that it took Sherlock to finish under the showerhead but that was ok; the silence had been companionable, not tense, and, whether it was a testament to John’s strength of character as a doctor or the fact that they’d been through the seven circles of Hell together, when Sherlock emerged from the shower with nothing on John hadn’t a single trace of blush of his cheeks. Had even gone as far as to hold the bath towel open for Sherlock to step into, curling it around his body before relinquishing his hold on it and allowing Sherlock to dry himself off, a small smile on John’s face when he saw the vigour with which Sherlock finished his shower and pulled clean clothes on.
His usual suit, a Spencer-Hart, the slide of the shirt over his skin and the ease with which the jacket slipped over his shoulders and around his back a feeling that he’d missed dreadfully. Like most of the things he’d had to leave behind, his clothing was something that he had become associated with through his most famous cases, a Sherlock Holmes trademark, and therefore was no longer allowed to use whilst he was in hiding. He’d had to cut his hair, dye it a horrid red colour that had turned to an equally displeasing ginger after the initial layer of dye had washed off, his clothing reduced to ill-fitting t-shirts, baggy jeans that had needed a belt to keep them up and a pair of running trainers that had seen better days after he was through with them.
So when he finished dressing and saw himself in the mirror above the sink, his shoulders visibly relaxed when the image reflected back at him was something that he recognised. John’s reflection was over his left shoulder, the other man leaning against the opposite wall of the bathroom and watching Sherlock look at himself. Sherlock knew that John was also searching out the familiarities of the person they had both known before the Fall; looking for that inherent ability to carry himself in his tracksuit bottoms in the same way as he would march through London’s streets with a freshly pressed suit; the flash of arrogance and pride when a particularly detailed case had a breakthrough, often with John giving Sherlock his undivided attention as the explanations poured into the crime scene with all the bluntness that only Sherlock seemed to possess. Self-assured, proud to the point of being egotistical, not above using people’s emotions against them when the situation called for it, certainly not above making himself appear emphatic to other people and then switching it off when he’d gotten what he needed.
That was all about to change though.
Without being obvious about it, which would have drawn unwanted attention, Sherlock started doing things around the flat; tidying up after himself, making his own tea or a light lunch when his body called for it; the sort of thing he’d had to do when he was hunting with no John available to cater to his every whim. He tidied up his experiments on the kitchen table, none of which had yielded the results he’d been hoping for anyway so had no qualms about disposing of them, and was vaguely pleasant to Mrs Hudson when she popped in for a chat to enquire on his welfare, her being fully briefed on the last few days and his somewhat fragile condition.
Contrary to what both he and John predicted, Mrs Hudson’s reaction to Sherlock’s return hadn’t been what they’d been expecting at all. John had done his utmost to prepare her for what she would see without actually telling her what it was, so when she walked through the front door to see Sherlock leaning against the mantelpiece on top of the fireplace they still had the desired shock factor from her, but she hadn’t fainted. Her eyes had stared at Sherlock for about five seconds, no more, her mouth still open from where she had been verbally waving away John’s concerns over the surprise, before walking up to him and slapping him around the face. Now that had been something that Sherlock was expecting but before he could say anything he’d found himself with an armful of his landlady, her arms reaching up around his shoulders to pull him down into a hug which he’d quickly reciprocated.
For the second time in thirty-six hours, Sherlock’s mind had gone blissfully still during that hug. He’d closed his eyes, the better to catalogue the feel of Mrs Hudson against him; the way her hands had gripped around his neck to keep him in place with his head resting on her shoulder, the scent of her perfume, ‘Chanel N°5’, flowing into him with each inhale, his own arms around her waist and across her shoulder blades to keep her close. Nothing had been said during those quiet moments, not verbally, but Sherlock’s mind hadn’t been able to stop thanking her for all she’d done for him while he was alive and, more importantly, the things she’d done after his death. She didn’t have to put John up in the flat when he couldn’t afford it on his own income, but she’d allowed him to stay nonetheless, offering whatever support she could during those dark days after the Fall. If she hadn’t have done that, there was no telling what John would have been like when he returned; however, it was logical to assume that, as bad as John was now, he would have been worse still without the encouragement of the people around him to keep him going.
For once his silence during his reunion with Mrs Hudson seemed to be all the thanks he needed to say. He must have communicated it to her through his obvious reluctance to let her go when the appropriate time came for the contact to end. Her small smile and the wetness around her eyes had told him that she understood, their arms still wrapped around each other when they pulled back to look at the other person, history and reality clashing against each other in the space between them. John had been standing in the doorway to the flat with his arms behind his back, watching the scene unfold and come to a peaceful conclusion despite the small onset of physical pain at the start. And, slowly, things had started to go back to normal.
Both Sherlock and John had decided that his return was to be kept a secret while Sherlock finished collating the evidence to prove his innocence, and Mrs Hudson was in full agreement with them. There wasn’t any doubt in their minds that this was going to turn into a major scandal once the truth was revealed and Sherlock wanted to ensure that his hand was held close until the time was right. It wasn’t time, yet, but it soon would be if everything went according to plan.
The hands on the clock in the living room showed ten past eight in the morning and Sherlock felt the weight of the hour keenly, all too aware of how quickly those hands moved when one wasn’t paying enough attention. John was getting ready to go out to buy some more supplies for them, a run that would take at least twenty minutes if everything went John’s way, and Sherlock was content for the moment to watch the other man as the final preparations were made before his departure.
“Are you sure you’re going to be ok?” John asked him (for the third time since he’d made the decision to go shopping).
Sherlock made a great show of rolling his eyes although he was smiling. “Yes, John. Honestly, you don’t need to keep asking me the same question when you know the answer isn’t going to be any different. You’re not that dull.”
A short laugh escaped John, Sherlock’s own smile becoming a wide grin at seeing the ease in which John smiled now, the echoes of laughter embedding themselves in the walls and lending everything a shine that had yet to fade. He stood up and retrieved his scarf from around his coat where it was hanging on the back of the door, motioning for John to halt when he was about to put his coat on to brave the chill of an English winter. It was actually snowing outside, an occurrence that was happening more frequently in the south of England, and he didn’t want John getting sick. With quick, efficient movements, he wrapped his scarf around John’s neck, the way that he would do on his own person, not missing the way that John was looking at him now; eyes wide, pupils consuming the iris until only a thin sliver of colour remained and breath held.
Few people were lucky enough to escape his scathing remarks, even fewer to actually have a conversation with him that didn’t end in some misguided sense of affront at his lack of tact. So it was no wonder that John was, for lack of a better word, in awe of being given the courtesy to use Sherlock’s scarf, despite the relationship that they now shared.
Having thought long and hard about it, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that they were no longer friends. There were clearly defined markers that said what a friend could and could not do, especially one between two male flatmates, and his memory of recent events told him that they’d passed those particular lines in the sand a while ago. Although a friend may stay close while the other one showered so that they could be kept safe, they didn’t wrap the other in a towel in as quite a familiar way as John had done. Friends, although the fairer sex were notorious for doing it, didn’t come up behind the other person and wrap their arms around them, something that Sherlock had come to enjoy doing on John because of two things. The first was their differences in height; his own body allowing him to curl his arms around John’s chest and rest his head atop the other man’s if he chose to do so, also allowing John’s head to tip back onto one of his shoulders if John decided he wanted to.
Which was often.
The second reason, although not second in importance, was the closeness that was created between them when Sherlock chose to initiate the contact. He hadn’t said sorry to John for what he’d done; somehow the words didn’t feel right, and he wanted to be able to do something that showed John, in his own way, how he was feeling. The hugs were more than just physical contact. It was to provide John with proof that Sherlock was alive, something that needed more reminders than he was comfortable with right now, usually required the morning after a sleepless night which left them both more than a little tetchy without something to diffuse it.
John hadn’t objected to the increase in what was, for Sherlock, physical intimacy bordering on an invasion of one’s personal space and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he should shocked at the change in himself over a certain doctor, or be shocked at John’s reactions to him. And decided that it didn’t matter in the end. If John was comfortable with the change in their relationship, than so was Sherlock.
When John had finished getting his coat on and was heading towards the door to leave the flat Sherlock hadn’t given him a hug; that was reserved for other times but he didn’t want John to leave without a reminder of himself. His right hand reached for John’s left, the one closest to him, and lightly clasped their fingers together, his thumb stroking over the tops of John’s knuckles in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. He felt it, the faint twitch in John’s hand as his brain registered the contact for what it was, might even have been a tremor on John’s part, but when those fingers curled back over his own Sherlock allowed himself to relax. His doctor understood.
He hoped it would be enough.
The flat had now been empty for two minutes and twenty-nine seconds with no return from John, which meant he hadn’t forgotten his card and was definitely on his way to the shops. Sherlock wanted to berate himself for waiting as long as he had, but he had to be sure. He’d managed to cover up his night of listening to John’s music without any hiccups as the doctor hadn’t woken until late the next morning as predicted, but this was to be an entirely different affair. He couldn’t take any more risks than necessary.
John’s bedroom door was open when he reached the top of the staircase, stopping at the threshold and looking around the room with the scrutiny that had once made him famous. The bed had been made, standard military precision befitting a man of John’s rank before his injury, his slippers beside his bed and side by side; within easy reach for him when he woke in the morning for him to slip his feet into. A few picture frames were on John’s chest of drawers, family photos of happier times with his sister, Harriet, and other family members. There was one of his promotion to Captain in the army, John in his dress-uniform, his mother and father (of course it was obvious who they were) standing beside him for the picture and all of them beaming. Photos from before and therefore not relevant.
Sherlock kept looking around the room, careful not to disturb anything when he looked in those drawers, checked John’s bedside cabinet, underneath the bed, but he didn’t find anything. The wardrobe didn’t have anything of note inside it, just John’s shirts and trousers for his work at the practice (before he’d stopped going, that is) and a spare pair of shoes at the bottom on a shoe rack which had been built into the unit. Across to the right, between the door and the wardrobe, was another door, a cupboard of sorts with three shelves in it, all of which were low enough for John’s stature as the highest rungs in the walls exceeded Sherlock himself and John would have had no hope of reaching them without a stepladder.
The shelves themselves hadn’t been used despite their being within easy reach, their white, reflective surface gleaming at Sherlock when he turned on the light switch adjacent to the door, but underneath the bottom shelf was a beige oak box, tucked down close the wall and secured with a bolt the thickness of Sherlock’s thumb. Not a large box, twenty-two centimetres high and thirty centimetres in width on both sides, but sturdy, with enough weight to it that it took Sherlock a few huffs to pull it out so he could unlatch it and open the lid.
A blaze of crimson met his eyes, the colour shocking him in its intensity against the backdrop of the wood. His fingers lifted the colour from the box, realising it was paper of the same make as John’s drawings; paper which had been cut to the size of the box lid to hide the contents underneath from view. The colour, an oil base, had been painted on in angry strokes with a one-inch brush, so clearly the John Watson he knew and cared for hadn’t done this, nor the artist he knew from the drawings in the living room. There had been considerable effort to cover the whole page in paint, but rather than using a two-inch brush which would have completed the goal much faster, John had used a smaller brush and the paint itself had been layered several times, ten or more judging by the depth of the colour and the intensity of the strokes. ‘Why, John? What were you thinking about?’ He set the page down on the floor beside him and looked back at the box again, turning his mind to the items held within.
The box was full to the brim of A4 size pages that had been folded in half twice to fit into the space and they weren’t labelled in any particular order, each looking as though it had been folded up and put on top of the others before being hastily covered with the crimson page. Sherlock unfolded one page slowly, hearing the soft sound the paper made when he moved it, and saw a pencilled version of St Bart’s hospital from street-view, as though he were looking up at the building. As before, like the drawing in the living room where John’s body in the picture had only served as a proximity indicator, John’s image in this drawing was to the same effect, showing the distance between himself and the figure standing on the roof, with his long, billowing coat and, clearly seen even from John’s distance, his right hand held up towards his head, fingers no doubt clutching the mobile phone that had heralded his last goodbye. A date, again in the bottom right-hand corner like the others.
The first of November, two thousand and thirteen.
Another page also in pencil, this one of that same figure falling towards the ground, limbs flailing as if he could stop himself somehow, defy gravity and not hit the pavement, but this image was closer, as though John had been standing closer to the building than before and had been watching from almost underneath Sherlock. But that wasn’t possible. John had obeyed Sherlock’s command to stay away, he hadn’t been that close before.
This one dated the eighteenth of November, two thousand and thirteen.
A third page and the first colour Sherlock had seen being used in John’s drawings. The same colour as the crimson on the covering page, spilling from Sherlock’s body on the ground and pooling around his head, life’s blood, but the image was blurred, unfocussed. Side effects of John’s knock from where the cyclist had crashed into him, making everything fuzzy and uncoordinated.
Twenty-fifth of November, twenty-thirteen.
By the fifth page his fingers had started shaking, his breathing fast in his chest. Sherlock was lying on the ground, now on his back, and John had a hold of his wrist to check for his pulse, bold, thick letters blazing across the top, disjointed where the pencil had kept snapping with the pressure, each letter painful and raw.
He’s my friend.
He’s my friend, please.
Twenty-eighth of November, twenty-thirteen.
Further pages were opened, each one put on the floor after he’d looked at them, all depicting Sherlock’s body in varying tones of black, grey and white, making the red slashes on the page much brighter in contrast, drawing the eye to them and the way in which the painting had been done . No flowing lines here, no easy movements, each brush stroke had been harsh and unforgiving, a staggering reminder of the mark John had made on the picture of Sherlock sleeping, the one they’d finished together. Each flashback, each memory a physical jolt, like an electric shock, forcing John’s hand across the page and the brush with it.
Twenty-two minutes past eight. Sherlock folded each piece of paper as he’d taken them out of the box and placed them back inside as they’d been before, mentally counting down the minutes till John’s return, calculating that he would have finished shopping and be on his way back, no doubt in a taxi as that would be easier than carrying the bags on the streets. He pushed the box back into position and turned off the light, closing the door and walking quickly from John’s bedroom, down the stairs and into the living room, sitting in his chair just as the front door to the building opened.
The rustle of the bags preceded John up the stairs, his face when he came into the flat still red from the wind chill and his hands clasping three bags in all. Sherlock met John’s eyes over the steeple of his fingers, smiling back when John grinned at finding him still there, not an imagination in any way, but he couldn’t stop himself from watching the way John smiled, how, even though he was getting more practice at it, it never seemed to reach his eyes the way it used to.
Sherlock broke the eye contact first and focussed his attention on more important matters to hand.
He now had the proof he’d been looking for and started to formulate a plan.

Quarter to eight in the evening, same day. “John, can you come here please?” Sherlock called from living room. John was upstairs at the moment, putting away his laundry for the day, but his footsteps resounded eagerly down the stairs at the sound of Sherlock requesting his presence. Sherlock held up one hand to stop the other man from speaking when John came into the living room and continued. “I have an experiment that I need your assistance with, if you don’t mind.”
Unlike before, where John’s face would have fallen at the mention of more bloody experiments, he now leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and nodded for Sherlock to continue.
“You asked me for something very recently,” Sherlock explained, “and I haven’t forgotten it. I was merely wondering if you would like to try something a bit different with me.”
John reached up to the scratch the back of his neck in a manner that was now a physical characteristic of him holding his patience. “Well, if you actually tell me what it is you want to do, I can decide whether or not I’ll want to do it, can’t I.”
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and without a word he reached down beside him and pulled up his violin case, laying it across his legs to open it and take his violin into his arms, placing the case back on the floor. He looked it over briefly, noting where the strings had come loose and would need retightening, the bow which would need re-oiling, and looked at John again. “I now have the strength to play for you, if you wish, but there is something that I would like you to do for me as well.”
All of John’s patience seemed to dissipate with Sherlock’s words, his eyes eager and his posture almost humbled at Sherlock’s admission that he needed his help. “Yes, of course. What is it you need?”
Sherlock reached into his violin case and began the necessary preparations for playing an instrument that hadn’t been used in over two years, eyes flicking to John every so often to gauge his reactions to what he was doing. “I had an idea to play you some select pieces that I found during my exile, so to speak, because I think they are pleasing to the ear and I would like to share them with you. But I would also like you to share something new with me, something that you hadn’t done when we were living together before.” A brief pause. “I would like you to draw for me, John, while I am playing.”
Ah, there it was; that small hesitance. “Sherlock…” John said, “I’m flatted, really, but-”
“No buts, John. This is something that I want to share with you and those are the terms. I would very much like for you to draw for me and I in turn will play for you.” Sherlock finished cleaning his violin, added the final touches to his bow and wandered over to his laptop perched on the edge of the desk with his instrument clasped in one hand. His fingers very quickly brought up iTunes and selected the playlist he’d made a few hours earlier while John had showered, but he didn’t press play immediately, instead looking over his shoulder and giving John a meaningful look.
John seemed to realise that his resistance to Sherlock’s request was a futile venture at best, for when had it ever occurred that Sherlock didn’t somehow get his own way when he truly wanted something? So he turned and went to his bedroom to retrieve his drawing materials, shoulders squared with an almost defiant tilt to his jaw, suggesting that he was only doing this because Sherlock was being an arrogant, persistent man who didn’t know how to take no for an answer.
When John returned to the living room with his materials, Sherlock already had his violin on his shoulder and was rememorizing the way it felt in his hands, on his body, the comforting weight of it and the ease with which he was able to move around the room while he tried out a few practice strings. Nothing to make a coherent piece that John would recognise, waiting patiently while the other man sat himself in his chair and turned to a new page on his sketch pad, newly sharpened pencil in hand.
“So how did you want to do this, Sherlock?” John asked, putting his left ankle on his right knee so he could rest his pad on his thigh, the maximum amount of comfort to be achieved in a position where he could still see Sherlock while he was drawing.
Sherlock took his violin from his shoulder and walked back over to his laptop, highlighting the first song and turning around so he could address John directly. “Most of these pieces start with a piano before the strings begin but I’m asking you not to be put off by that. Also, like all experiments, this will need a properly controlled environment if the results are to be accurate. I would like you to listen to the music with me, watch the way that I am playing and while you’re doing that I want to draw. It doesn’t matter what you draw, it can even be me if you like, but above all else I need you to focus on me until all the songs have finished and not move from where you are sitting. Can you do that?”
If John looked uncomfortable with the directions, he didn’t let it show on his face, looking more curious than anything else, and it was with John’s eyes on him that Sherlock clicked the ‘play’ button.
The first notes of the song came through the speakers and Sherlock studiously kept his back turned so John couldn’t use him as a distraction. He needed all of John’s attention on the music until the time came for him to play. The volume wasn’t turned up especially loud but the atmosphere in the flat meant the sound carried easily from his laptop and, like John did with his drawing, he began to let the music in. His eyes strayed to the snowflakes which were drifting and settling on the window-sill, seeming to follow the tempo and the melodies that the artist had created, providing a sort of lulling comfort for him when the backing strings were about to bring in the main string quartet. Only then did he lift his violin to his shoulder and, turning around to face John again, begin to play.
True to his word, John had already begun to draw, but he wasn’t looking at Sherlock for the moment despite Sherlock asking him to do the opposite, content it seemed to focus on his drawing, the soft sound of the pencil on the paper almost lost in the music. It didn’t stop Sherlock from his playing, allowing his body to tilt and sway as his fingers lovingly moved along the neck of his violin and locating the notes with ease. The fact that he was playing along to another song didn’t detract him from his rhythm; everything felt flawless and exquisite, like he was the lead violinist and the other instruments were merely adding to his brilliance. Every so often he would look over to John, and once, briefly, their eyes met during a particularly emotional movement before Sherlock closed his eyes against the contact, willing John to focus on his playing, on his body language before the final notes of the piano heralded the end of the piece.
Neither of them spoke during the two second silence and before long the noise of thunder and rain accompanied another piano, a different rhythm to the previous song and completely at odds with the snowfall outside, but Sherlock readied himself while glancing at John’s drawing, spotting a tall figure dancing across the page with a grace and precision that Sherlock was unconsciously able to provide. The movement of the music was easy to fall into and before long he found himself twirling around the living room, as though he held a lover in his arms that needed all of his skills as an artist to make them sing. He could feel John’s eyes on him as he lost himself to it, the act of playing, and if anything it made him feel bolder, made it easier for him to express the emotion he felt while handling his instrument and coaxing beautiful sounds from her.
As before, neither of them spoke during the song, although now the atmosphere of the flat had changed; there wasn’t any tenseness at all, it was the wrong word, but more an anticipation of what was to come. So when the next song began to play, Sherlock knew that his performance during the two previous tracks would give John the freedom to express himself in his own work and indeed it was doing just that. During the beginning of the experiment John’s movements had been rigid and tense, still unsure as to how he should progress, but with the physical proof of Sherlock letting himself go, throwing himself wholeheartedly into this moment, his own drawing had become more relaxed and more dramatic, the movement of the pencil on the paper discernible and flowing with a melody all of its own.
It was when Sherlock noted that John was at his most relaxed, and the song had reached its crescendo, that he spoke. “I’m a fake.”
At first, it didn’t seem like the words had registered for John did not stop in his drawing, but his eyes now had a focus to them that hadn’t been there before. Sherlock didn’t let it deter him, continuing on with his playing as the words poured from his lips, the sound of the music heightening the emotion that he fed into his voice and keeping his gaze on John. “The newspapers were right all along… I want you to tell Lestrade… I want you to tell Mrs Hudson… And Molly…”
John’s lips were pursed now, his breathing laboured and his eyes threatened with tears, but he didn’t stop drawing, even when every other word seemed to shake him where he sat, marring his work, but not once did he lift his eraser to try and correct it. The sight of the other man’s emotional distress was heart-breaking, but Sherlock used this to his advantage, using his pain and forcing it into his words as the next track started. “In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty, for my own purposes.”
He saw it, the exact moment when John decided that he couldn’t deal with this, couldn’t continue with the experiment and threw his pad down, preparing to retreat, but it made his next words that much easier. “No, stay exactly where you are! Don’t move!”
Sherlock had stopped playing now, leaving the music on in the background as he held his right hand out towards John and fixed him with the same desperate stare that he knew John hadn’t been able to see when he’d been on the rooftop at Bart’s. It served its intended purpose, pinning John to his seat and rendering him incapable of moving. “Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?”
“Do what?” The sound of John’s voice, quiet and ragged, almost startled Sherlock out of his focus, but he wrenched it back, keeping himself in this moment with John, this memory made flesh.
“This phone call, it’s um… it’s my note… It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note…”
John’s eyes were streaming tears, his hands clenched in his lap, his drawing forgotten on the floor with all the lines that the pencil had made, the same thick lines that matched the drawing in the box from where the pencil kept breaking from the pressure of John’s movements. “Why?” The word was a broken sob, forcing its way from John’s throat, choked and brittle, so Sherlock didn’t hesitate when he rushed to John’s chair and pulled him to its edge, caging him in his arms and burying his face in John’s hair.

This bitter Earth

Well, what the fruit it bears

Ooooh

This bitter Earth^*
“I had no choice, John. Please believe me. Please, I had to do it… I had to…” He didn’t realise that he’d started crying until he felt the wetness trickle down his cheeks to drip on John’s neck, the tightness in his chest threatening to suffocate him. “Moriarty, he… he was going to kill you… all of you… Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and you, John. I tried to stop him, but he shot himself before I could make him call off the snipers.”

And if my life is like the dust

Ooh that hides the glow of a rose

What good am I?^*
He almost trembled with relief when he felt John’s arms clutch at his shirt before moving around his body to return the embrace, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder to drown out his sobs. “You… you did it for me?”

Heaven only knows^*
Sherlock heard the disbelief in his friend’s voice, quickly rushing to correct the assumption. “If they didn’t see me jump… If the news didn’t broadcast my suicide, you would have died. I couldn’t let that happen, John. I couldn’t watch you die when I thought I could save you!”

Lord, this bitter earth

Yes, can be so cold

Today you’re young

Too soon, you’re old^*
His words seemed to loosen whatever knot had been left in John after his fake suicide; his body slumping forward into Sherlock’s when all his strength bled from him. Sherlock took the weight gratefully, willing his friend to be strong through the healing of a wound that had gone too long untreated. Through the sounds of their shared pain, the lyrics and strings of the last song Sherlock had chosen seemed rather fitting in hindsight, but even he could not have predicted that it would turn out like this, although he had always really hoped to find the forgiveness that he’d sought from the moment his feet left the roof, two and a half years ago, in John’s arms.

But while a voice within me cries

I’m sure someone may answer my call

And this bitter earth

Ooooh

May not, ohhh, be so bitter after all^*
John’s hands finally grasped back at Sherlock’s body, pressing away until he was looking up at Sherlock and cupping his face with one hand while the other fisted in the front of his shirt, bringing them closer together until their foreheads touched, their breaths and their tears mingling between them.

This bitter earth

Lord, this bitter earth^*
Their breathing had become opposite, so for every breath that Sherlock took he was inhaling John’s and John’s was the same, each becoming the half of one whole. For that was what it always had been, was destined to be from the moment that Mike Stamford that introduced them. Hadn’t it?
“I forgive you, Sherlock.” Each word spoken against his lips, each one leaving him wondering how this was even possible while still feeling the brush of John’s mouth against his own. Before those lips were pressing against his, tentative at first, unsure, and then with a rising heat as Sherlock felt himself reciprocating, tangling his fingers in John’s hair to keep him close.
And when the heat settled into a deeper, more intense burn which was rapidly rising to consume them both, his last coherent thought was, ‘Oh god, yes it had.’

What good is love, mmmm that no one shares

And if my life is like the dust

Ooh that hides the glow of rose

What good am I?

Heaven only knows.^*
The End
_{*Lyrics are from 'This Bitter Earth' by Dinah Washington}
A/N: Please find below a list of the songs for Sherlock’s track-list for your listening enjoyment, all of which can be found on YouTube and/or iTunes. Please support the artists in this fic if you can, they have been a real inspiration to me :-)
Thank you again for travelling with me on this wonderful journey and I hope to see you all again soon. There is a sequel being planned so watch this space.
All my love,
Darkangel1211
1)    For a Lost Love – Adrian Von Ziegler
2)    Your Dying Heart – Adrian Von Ziegler
3)    Darkness, Beloved – Adrian Von Ziegler
4)    Requiem for the Nameless Dead – Adrian Von Ziegler
5) This Bitter Earth (On the Nature of Daylight) – Dinah Washington and Max Richter (Shutter Island OST)
- 9
- 10
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Sounds of an Artist