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house-of-holmes-blog · 8 years ago

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“Living Without You” (Chapter 2) by Noa Gelts

A heart-breaking fanfiction by one of the founding members of The House of Holmes that will inevitably have you in tears by the end. An unexpected turn of events lead to the death of John Watson and inevitably- the destruction of his best friend.

If you enjoy her work, you can find her wattpad account at the link below: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Skyscale3268

Blurb: It takes one case to rock the detective's world to the end. One case in which he would want to leave everything. One case that will change his life at the close and change everything he knows. But will Sherlock be able to deal with it?

Themes: Major character death, action, drama, angst, substance abuse, friendship, death

Rating: G (general audience)/ T (Teens and up)

READ BELOW THE CUT:

Chapter Two: Funeral Day

Funeral day wasn't easy for anyone. Everyone who attended wore the darkest shades of black and the atmosphere in the church was nothing but sorrow. All bowed their heads. The blood that had covered John's body had been removed from his ashen skin, and he was dressed in a black, silk suit tailored especially for him. The soldier rested in his coffin; his face serene. Nightmares would no longer wake him during the night, or cause him to cry out; this was eternal sleep. The priest addressed the congregation and did a short speech honouring his life and acquaintances were invited to say their farewells as characterized by funerals. One of the speakers was a woman around the age of forty with short, graying blonde hair, a flat nose and broad shoulders. She didn't seem focused; she seemed...drunk. This was Harry- John's only sister- and she was just as John described her: drunk.

"My dear brother...was killed in a horrific car accident..." she slurred. "I always loved him and our relationship couldn't have been any better, but he died in such a tragic manner. Bye, James."

"Wrong," muttered Sherlock furiously under his breath, from his seat in the front row alongside Lestrade. "They hated each other and she doesn't even know his name!" he thought angrily, as Harry waddled off the stage back to her seat- swaying as she walked.

Other friends spoke: friends from the army, distant relatives, and even colleagues from the clinic - but only one important person in John's life didn't speak; and it was none other than his best friend. Sherlock did not want to see people. If there was one person that he wanted to see; he was lying in the coffin before him. After the intimate speeches and words of farewell, the crowd walked towards the cemetery together. They trailed mutely behind the coffin that was leading them; accompanying John on his last journey. On his way out, Sherlock saw Mycroft standing at the back of the church unnoticed; overlooking the ceremony. His hawk eyes gazed with concern at the well-being of his brother but Sherlock ignored him and passed him without a word, heading in the direction of the cemetery.

John's coffin was interred and the guests gradually left the cemetery; returning to their homes, returning to their daily routine, returning to their lives- except for one person.

One person who would come back to an empty flat with the scent of loss and loneliness. That one person remained behind everyone, and when they left; he approached the fresh grave blankly. He sat down and stared at the tombstone hollowly- on John's name that was engraved on the polished stone.

“Why did you leave me?" he asked the cold stone after several minutes of silence. He hesitated and thought about what to say; but when he did, he continued: "I never imagined it would happen...I didn't want to imagine...I was so alone and my life was boring, useless- until you came and gave meaning to my life; something, someone to live for...I've never had a good friend, because as you know I hate people and they hate me. So I could never imagine that I could get myself a friend or someone to love. Especially the bravest and kindest man I have ever known. You are the first, and the only person who didn't see me as a freak or as inhuman- so I swore that I'd protect you; that I wouldn't let anything happen to you, no matter what. But I failed...I failed, John, I failed..." Sherlock's throat dried up as he burst into tears. They washed over him; he couldn't stop them. He broke down. After a while, he continued in a more broken voice after he had calmed down a little.

He continued to cry; "I've relapsed...I take drugs again, so I don't have to feel the grief. I know it makes you angry, but this is the only way to keep you off my mind, John...Baker Street is empty and living there is not the same without you...I miss you John, and I'm sorry for everything I've done to you. I caused this." He cupped his hands over his face; the tears still running down his cheeks. "I hope that at least you had a good time with me...I know I had..." He smiled sadly; remembering all the cases, all their memories together. "You saved my life more than once, but I failed saving yours..." He broke into tears again; crying bitterly. He couldn't say anything else; his tears choking back the words that tried to escape his mouth. He just kept sobbing onto the cold, biting stone. If he had only known how to save a life; he would never have lost his best friend.

The night fell; covering London in its dark casing. Sherlock was still crying by John's grave; leaning on the stone with puffy eyes, weeping warm tears into the frosty winter night.

#sherlock #noagelts #fanfiction #loss #johnwatson #bbc #fans #mycroftholmes #funeral

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house-of-holmes-blog · 8 years ago

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"What Have You Done?" (Chapter 1) by Em

A heart-breaking emotional fanfiction in the works by one of our founding members and the creator of the group chat that started everything. Thank you, Em.

If you enjoy her work, you can find her AO3 account at the link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels

Blurb: Sherlock sneaks off to a drug den to get high; but as he trips, Moriarty escapes from his mind and comes out to play. Will John and Mycroft get there in time to save him?

Themes: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Jim Moriarty, Rosamund Watson, Substance Abuse, Drug Overdose, Mind Palace, Blood and gore, Angst, Emotional hurt/comfort, Ambiguous relationships, Dark Sherlock, Suffering.

Rating: E (Explicit)

READ BELOW THE CUT:

Chapter One: "Sand Falling Through an Hourglass"

Sherlock presses the needle into his arm. It doesn’t hurt like it normally does; there’s just a sharp sting, a prick that lasts a moment, and then it’s done.

He slumps backwards on the mattress and lets his head fall against the damp brick wall behind him. It shouldn’t take long before the drugs start to take effect. He’s taken a higher dosage than normal - a whole 5 percent more.

Enough to knock him out completely, he hopes.

As he starts to drift off guilt gnaws away at his insides and snakes around his stomach like a deadly disease. What will happen to John if he doesn’t make it? To Mycroft? Will they blame him?

He groans and pushes the thoughts away. Not now, he thinks, please not now.

The air is so damp that it clings to his chest, making his forehead bead with cold sweat. He fumbles at his shirt, tries to undo it, but fails as his vision begins to cloud over; blurring as the world wavers in and out of focus. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or distraught. His brain puts up the usual struggle, tries to fight back. Wrestling with the inevitable like a wild animal that’s being smothered by a blanket.

He moans and convulses as the drugs begin to take effect. They make him swallow air and gasp frantically as he loses control over his nerve actions. It’s like his mind is finally backing into a corner, being forced to shut down. Trapped.

He hopes no one finds him here. He deliberately chose a place he’s never been, somewhere so far across town that it’s almost out of London. He can’t get caught. They won’t understand if he does, won’t listen.

He unclenches his fists and lets his head slump forward as the final wave of drowsiness overtakes him.

“John…” he moans softly as he slips into the dark world of unconsciousness. “ Please …”

***

John wakes to the sound of a baby screaming. It’s Rosamund. His baby.

“Ugh…” Mary shifts in the sheets beside him. “I’ll get it.”

John grumbles a word of thanks before pulling the covers over his arm and rolling over onto his chest, listening as the sound of his wife’s footsteps recede to the hallway. The night is still young, and only the dull orange light from street lamp outside illuminates the room. Silence swarms around him. He finds his gaze fixed on the shadows lying still on the floor, outlines cast by the furniture. For a moment he thinks he sees one of them move but then dismisses it. Why isn’t he sleeping?

Sherlock.

Butterflies flutter softly in his stomach. He’s probably fine, he thinks. Probably slumped in bed or passed out on the sofa after spending hours composing on the violin. Or perhaps he’s out on a case, tracking down a criminal with Lestrade. He’ll be fine, John tells himself, repeating the words again and again in his head until he forgets how many times he’s said them.

But it still doesn’t make him believe it.

It’s extraordinary how much he finds himself missing Baker Street; the stories of the clients, the hustle and bustle of Mrs Hudson, the faint sound of the London traffic echoing off the walls. It’s too quiet here. He longs for the cases; for the adrenaline that used to pump through his veins, the midnight pursuits. He wants more than anything to be back with the man with a nightmare of a personality and a charming smile…

It’s strange because the feeling has only come back again recently, a couple of weeks after Sherlock’s return. Before that John was actually moving on, progressing, finding alternatives. Rebuilding his life with Mary.

But he can’t have both of them. He can’t .

He exhales loudly through his nose and stares up at the ceiling. He’s wide awake now, and a sick feeling has settled in the pit his stomach. What if Sherlock isn’t fine? What if he’s lying in an alleyway, bleeding out from a gunshot wound? What if he’s had a row with Mycroft, or is thinking about Irene? What if he’s fallen victim to temptation.....?

John sits up on his elbows and reaches for his phone.

No new messages.

He sighs and flops back down again, his head falling heavily against the pillow.

Will he ever stop worrying about this?

***

Mycroft sits at his desk and scrolls endlessly on his phone. Emails, emails. All the same, just packaged differently. Familiar names and places - occasionally new ones - swapped around endlessly like players on a monopoly board. Each message is a different disaster to deal with, a new crisis to sooth and unravel.

It’s hard to describe what he actually does - there’s just so much to it; shutting people up, forcing them to talk. Switching certain goods to different locations. Exchanging dark words to mindless MP’s on the phone. Everything.

He’s the one that calms all the government fuck ups - orders them out. Finds each one and untangles it neatly before hiding it away far from the public’s view. It’s work that never stops. Dots that don’t stay connected. A task that always needs to be re-assembled.

He sits back in his desk chair and rakes a tired hand through his hair. He should sleep. He needs to be up again in less than 5 hours.

His phone suddenly flashes on the desk in front of him. Anthea.

CCTV just picked Sherlock up in an alleyway in Croydon. Verify?

Mycroft’s stomach twists, and his fingers start to twitch involuntarily. Sherlock hasn’t got a case on at the moment - not to his knowledge - and intelligence is showing that John and Lestrade are both asleep at their separate addresses. Irene is not in the country, and Moriarty is dead.

Croydon? So far from central London. An alleyway?

He fumbles with his phone and types a message as quickly as he can manage, his fingers blurring as they rush across the screen.

Denied. Send me the footage and call for a car immediately. M *** Sherlock floats in and out of consciousness ceaselessly. His limbs are limp, spiritless, and there’s saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth and drooling down his chin. At one point he collapses onto his side. He knows he’s gurgling rubbish, groaning loudly about the one person he really shouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter, this place is empty anyway.

His mind feels white and vacant.

Like an empty room. There’s no thoughts, no talking. Just wide expanses of blank space.

He loves this part.

Because he’s done it. He’s switched off. Numbed the pain so that nothing remains. It’s just him and a wonderful emptiness. A mind that has slowed to a near standstill, what most people would probably consider normal.

See, no one understands what's it's like to live like this - not even Mycroft.

His whole life he’s had to suffer a constant background noise; a glaring buzz that’s impossible to switch off, not even for a moment.

But he’s done it now.

He tries to open his eyes but feels them rolling backwards. With great effort he shifts so that he’s lying flat on the mattress, and tries to gather the strength to rip apart the remaining buttons on his shirt. Because, although it’s cold in here - he’s hot. So hot he’s sweating all over. Moisture is soaking through his clothes, seeping onto and into the mattress. It’s the only thing ruining this actually, it’s-

He doesn’t normally sweat this much.

There’s a tug from somewhere deep within him. A horrible lurching in his stomach that indicates something is wrong. He feels his conscience fighting back; contracting the emptiness, the white room, shrinking it down in size. He can only form one thought. And it’s not a good one to start a high-dosage trip with.

What if five percent was too much?

***

John wakes to someone shaking him. Someone pushing and pulling at his shoulders. Hard.

“Huh? Mary?”

“John wake up, your-”

“Uh,” John tries to flush the drowsiness from his brain. “Right, Rosie again, my turn-”

“No.” Mary snaps. “Not her, your phone-”

“What? Oh.”

John shakes himself awake sharply and sits upwards. His phone is flashing and vibrating on the dresser beside him. He grasps for it clumsily.

“Hello?”

“John? It’s Mycroft.”

“Mycroft…?” John mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “Jesus what time is it?”

“2.39am. Now get dressed immediately and get in the car waiting for you outside. Don’t bring Mary. I’ll meet you there. See you-”

“Wait-” John’s head is spinning. The sick feeling in his stomach has intensified to uncharted territory. He feels like he’s in a daze. Is he dreaming?

“What do you mean? Where am I meeting you? What’s going on?”

“Sherlock.” The elder Holmes responds darkly. “I’ve got an intuition. Hurry.”

He hangs up before John gets the chance to reply.

***

Mycroft sits back into the cool leather seats of the car and waits as his phone downloads the CCTV footage. It seems to take forever; the percent ticking upwards slower than he can physically bear. It’s torture.

It finally comes through.

The video is black and white, grainy, and moves by the frame. An image of a dimly lit alleyway flickers slowly. He’s got to give Anthea credit for identifying Sherlock with this quality of footage.

The alleyway remains empty for a few seconds before a man with a long dark coat and a rumpled white shirt stumbles from a metal door on the left - likely the back of a club. His coat collar is up, and his scarf is hanging loosely around his neck. His hair is stuck together in clumps.

He looks worse than Mycroft’s ever seen him.

As he staggers closer to the camera it’s clear this is far more serious than Mycroft first expected. It’s like a heavy weight has been dropped through him, sinking into his chest. He suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe.

Because his brother is as white as a ghost, a sickly pale. His cheekbones look hollowed out and angular. There’s puffy white bags under his eyes.

How could Mycroft have missed this? How did he let his own brother slip under the radar?

Sherlock looks like he’s going to overdose. In fact, Mycroft is sure of it.

He tries desperately to stop the world from turning upside-down in his head and uses an intelligence database to get the locations of all the nearest drug hotspots. There’s one fifteen minutes away from where Sherlock was last seen. Five.

Within seconds he’s got an address.

***

This has never happened before.

As the minutes tick by Sherlock starts to feel the tables turning, like sand draining through an hourglass. Slowly but surely he starts to slip from heaven to hell. To the darkest corners of his mind. To where the demons are waiting with blood red eyes and snarling teeth.

And it’s one person who controls them all.

Moriarty infects his dreams like a slow acting disease, a cancer. A black poison that corners him from all directions. Snakes under his feet like a python, slide through his hair like smoke. Soon he’s everywhere.

It all starts with a laugh; a silent cackle that gradually gets louder and louder until suddenly it’s so deafening that it's threatening to burst his eardrums.

“No!” Sherlock gasps, his body jolting as his knees contract towards his chest. “Not you.” Tears begin to squeeze from the corners of his eyes.

Did you miss me?

“Please, no!” Sherlock begs, the words falling from his mouth in a jumbled blur, echoing loudly off the empty concrete walls. “Leave me. Leave me alone!”

But shouting only seems to make it worse, and his mind decides to crank up the tricks. He suddenly sees Moriarty’s pale face flash before his eyes, far too close. There’s bright red blood leaking from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. His eyes are completely black, bottomless pits. And when he grins, there's parts of a human heart in his mouth.

I’m gonna burn the heart out of you.

Sherlock lets out a scream and thrashes his arms about frantically in front of his face. He coughs and splutters uncontrollably. He needs to make this stop. He can't handle this. He’ll do anything. Moriarty has never been able to penetrate this deep into his mind before. Never managed to get to him like this when he’s high.

You thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t you Sherlock?

Sherlock shakes and trembles, and has to bite down hard on the corners of his mouth to stop himself from calling out. The metallic taste of blood floods his taste buds. He feels like he’s drowning in it.

“You’re dead,” he whines, the words as loud as he can manage. “You shot yourself, I watched you. I watched you-” He breaks off into a yell as another spasm takes control of his body, causing his chest to jerk upwards.

The laughter floods his ears again.

Dead? Sure. Whatever you want to believe Sherlock, but you know I’ll always be here. Corrupting your dreams, altering your thoughts. It’s the memory that matters now you see, your imagination will do the rest. So brilliant, isn’t it?

“Ah,” Sherlock gags as the image of Jim lying in a bath of scarlet red blood penetrates his mind, tainting his senses. He feels Jim whispering into his ear, the sensation causing tingles to spark down his spine and making him want to retch. He shifts on the mattress.

The best bit is Sherlock, what cure is there? What cure is there for insanity? Meds don’t work on you…you’re resistant to most of them. It looks like even drugs don’t work anymore, I’ve found my way through them too!

Sherlock’s whole body starts to tremble.

What was that one thing that did help? You know, the one thing you loved most that I destroyed?

“Don’t say his name!” Sherlock babbles. “Please. That stuff is private. Get. Out. Of. My. Head.”

Oh it was John wasn’t it. The little army soldier. Like a lion but more loyal. Why isn’t he by your side again?

“You!” Sherlock rasps, his voice cracking as he struggles for breath. He twists and shudders on his back; eyes darting rapidly back and forth behind his fluttering eyelids. “You made me leave. And he found-”

That’s right Sherlock. He’s with Mary now, and aren’t they cute together? It’s just gonna be you and me from now on. Together until the end. Because there’s no one coming to help you. You’re gonna die here tonight, in this disgusting slimy drug den, with the syringe by your side and the image of me in your head. You picked a good spot actually. No one can hear you. Was that so you could moan helplessly about John? Well, he’s not coming Sherlock. No one is coming to the rescue. It’s just you and me now...you and me...

***

The journey feels like forever, because it is. They get held up by a truck and are set back thirty minutes at least. Thirty whole tortuous minutes that John has to spend going crazy in the back of a car. He’s actually losing his mind. He wants to cry, to throw up, to kick something.

He won’t be able to handle it if Sherlock dies. Not for the third time. Especially not when he awoke with that feeling earlier and carelessly ignored it.

He. Won’t. Cope.

He speaks on the phone to Mycroft for roughly ten minutes. They formulate a plan: Locate Sherlock, assess what drugs he’s taken, and then get him into an ambulance and try and keep him conscious. If he’s taken a syringe there will be nothing else they can do.

The car finally skids to halt outside a large run-down Victorian building a few streets away from the main road. It’s got faded red brickwork and slanting window ledges. There’s graffiti on the walls. All the glass is smashed through. He practically leaps from the car and makes off down the path towards the doorway; red hot adrenaline pumping through his veins, fueling his system. He feels absolutely nothing other than the desire to run, the need to seek Sherlock out and help him immediately.

To save his life.

***

“John?” Mycroft presses the phone to his ear. The metal feels cold and unnatural against his skin. His fingers are already going pink. His breath is coming out in clouds in front of him. “John are you here?”

“I’m coming, by the stairs now, which floor?”

“Second.” Mycroft doesn't bother to hide the fact that he’s panting and wheezing. He’s climbed the stairs and now he finds himself stood in a large empty hallway. The whole building is absorbed by the smell of damp concrete and cobwebs. It’s pitch black. The only light he’s got is the torch from his phone.

“Sherlock?” he calls.

But nothing other than the sound of his own voice echoes back at him.

Then heavy footsteps, a hand on his shoulder.

“John,”

The army doctor is red in the face and panting hard, but he has a better torch at least. He doesn’t even stop to look Mycroft in the eye.

“This way,” he says suddenly. “I heard something.”

They dart through a wooden door to their left. Even in the dark, Mycroft can tell it’s a sizable room, with high ceilings and moonlight streaming in from bay windows at either end.

He holds his breath as John comes to a halt beside him and scans the walls with his torch. There’s nothing, just tattered remains of mattresses, beer bottles, litter, and then-

“Oh my god.”

All the blood drains from Mycroft’s body.

*** John dashes forwards. Sherlock is lying face up on a mattress in the corner of the room. He’s shaking uncontrollably, hands trembling at his sides. John’s first thought is that he’s having a seizure. He’s never seen anyone so drenched in their own sweat.

“Sherlock! Oh my god, oh god, what have you taken, what-”

His best friend jolts at his approach, groaning loudly before producing a stream of inaudible noises. His eyes flicker open and shut again. His body contracts and then relaxes. Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth. He’s never looked so pale.

“Oh my god,” John drops instinctively to his knees, fumbling for his friend's pulse, but Mycroft suddenly comes up behind him and pushes him roughly out the way. He starts to search frantically through Sherlock’s pockets, as if his life depended on it.

“Where’s the list?” he mumbles.

“What?”

“WHERE’S THE LIST?!”

John collapses backwards. He’s never heard Mycroft yell before.

“What list?” he cries, his voice laced with panic. “I don’t understand?!”

“The list.” Mycroft repeats, his hands still scurrying all over the ground near Sherlock, searching blindly in the darkness. “We have an agreement you see, that every time he overdosed he would write a list. A list of everything he’s taken. It makes things easier when - WHY CAN’T I FIND IT?!”

John forces air to inflate his lungs. He shuffles so he's back at Sherlock's side; placing his hands on the detective's flaming cheeks to try and calm his movements, but as he does so he accidentally nudges something light with his foot.

“Wait Mycroft! Is it this?” He holds up a damp ball of crumpled paper.

Mycroft snatches it from his hands. He places the torch between his teeth and unravels it as fast as he can without making it rip.

“Oh my…” The words get mumbled with the torch in his mouth. He drops it to the floor and pulls out his phone to call an ambulance.

John moves back to Sherlock’s side and starts to carry out the same medical procedure he would on any patient. He checks his pulse, rapid and sporadic. He tries to put him in the recovery position, but Sherlock refuses to keep still. He groans and yells, his limbs shaking immensely. His murmurs are starting to form sentences. He seems to be arguing with someone, but John can’t tell who.

“Sherlock!” John palms at his best friend’s forehead, at his cheeks, at his chest. “Can you hear me? Listen, I need you to stay conscious. I know you’re fighting this but you need to keep going, for me Sherlock. For John, I’m here.”

The sickening sound of a sob breaks out from somewhere behind him. Mycroft has finished on the phone, and is sat back on his heels. John doesn't need to shine the torch to know there’s tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Christ Sherlock...” he whispers, staring down gravely at his brother. “What have you done?”

#sherlock #sherlockholmes #fanfiction #johnwatson #angst #johnlock #mycroftholmes

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