Of All Things - Watson

There was one thing that Watson could never get used to, one thing that Holmes did that always slowly drove him insane, with worry and even guilt sometimes for not being there…It was when he would disappear for weeks on end.  He would say he would be back soon, that it was a simple case, But he wouldn't return.

There was never contact either in these, just a disoriented Holmes wandering home at an ungodly hour, hurt beyond what any normal Human would have given up at.   But he always found his way home, to his doctor, to safety.  

He prayed that would be today that the next time the door opened that he would slam down his journal and bolt out to the staircase to find Holmes in a heap on the floor, hurt, but alive.

But now, the door opened quietly, never a good sign, was it Mrs. Hudson?  He set down his journal and stood, walking from his office and placing  his hand on the door to Holmes' study.  It was officer Clark,  why would he be here…?

"No…"  Was all Watson could say, letting his hand drop from the door that seemed to almost burn him now.  "H-Have you arrested him?  What has the fool done now?"

Please don't let it be true.

"I'm sorry sir…But there is something you need to know.  We have found Sherlock Holmes."  Even as he said this, Watson could see the color drain on Clarks face…Clarky as Holmes would call him.  Had called him.

The thought itself made his legs go weak, the grip on his walking cane tightening to the point that his hand was almost purely white.  Sherlock was too smart to get himself killed, right?  "…What has he gotten himself into now…?"  As he spoke that firm tone he always had faded, The military man almost sounded meek, forcing himself to think that his friend had merely done something slightly stupid.

Clark lead him out of the house, carefully, slowly to the grave yard.  The sight in front of him was enough to break the doctors heart.  A fresh grave was dug, and a marble headstone with the name 'Sherlock Holmes' decorating it.  Truly, it was beautiful had it not carried his companions name.  He noted then, as Sherlock would have liked him to, every officer there had their head bowed, and the grave itself was rather shallow.  

"Do not t-tease me about this, Clarky, where is Holmes?"  

A rather extravagant coffin was opened, revealing the pale, prone form to his eyes,  dressed loosely in a suit that seemed just a bit too big, courtesy of the Yard, as well as the coffin…His hair was brushed back, tamed, and his arms crossed across his stomach.

If he didn't know that this meant this counterpart was dead, he would say he almost looked peaceful, more composed then he ever had before.

Watson turned on his heel immediately and the coffin was closed once again, he could hear them moving it, their footsteps, the sounds of exertion as they carefully lowered his friend into the ground.   Why was Mycroft not here to see his little brother off?  Where was Irene to be peaking in from the shadows?  Wide blue eyes looked to Lestrade first, then to Mrs. Hudson.

This simply had to be a dream, fabricated by his lonely and worried mind, something that he would wake up from when the door slammed and Sherlock came bounding in with a smile that seemed to almost cover his face.  He would be waiting for praise of course, waiting to tell Watson of everything he had done, of how he had caught the villain, of how he had escaped the perils only to be caught by…Something as outlandish as pirates!  He would tell him of his adventure back home, of the people he met, of the shoes they wore, the perfume that decorated the women's bodies…

Holmes would…

Never walk through that door again.

That single thought seemed to break him,  he looked up to the darkening sky and left without a word, staggering nearly the entire way home, not stopping until Lestrade picked him up in a cab.  He had nothing to say, nothing at all, men did not cry, not military men.  Swiftly he got out of the cab, raising a hand in goodbye before he opened the door to their…his home, He walked up the stairs and immediately went to the other males study, collaped onto the carpet where he often found Sherlock asleep.

And he cried,  he sobbed so hard he felt almost as though he would die himself, like he was without oxygen, without true reason to live.  He had lost the ecentric man that his life was almost based around,  This room was useless now.  

That Violin he would curse at three in the morning was now more then welcome,  if only he could hear Holmes plucking tiredly at the strings once more.

The little leather case that seemed to be the bane of his existence…He would give anything to see the other male sitting and making use of that Seven Per Cent solution.

The fake nose on his table, the half empty glass of wine,  the pot of water sitting over a long dead fire.

All things that were useless without Holmes.

Without Sherlock.

John screamed, tossing the book that he had seen Sherlock flipping through about two weeks ago, he threw it at the wall, where Sherlock had shot a design into.

He tossed the desk, dug through the papers to see who exactly it was that had killed his dear Holmes, His Sherlock.  To see who had killed the man he loved, even if his feelings were not returned.

One glimmer seemed to poke into his mind then.  He hadn't pronounced him dead himself,  maybe someone was a fool?  Maybe they did not feel his heartbeat, maybe they could not hear his breath.  Perhaps they were all wrong, what if he was alive?  What if he wasn't?  

He could not just rob a grave, let alone one so treasured.

But he could not let it go, he could not release that glimmer of hope.  He simply couldn't, His logical mind was turning upside down.

He would find him, he would be alive, he had to be.  How long had it been since they sealed him in the coffin?  How much air would he have?  

Spite his legs protest he bolted out of the room, that darling pipe cradled to his chest.  A cab wouldn't do, he had to find his way there on his own.  He had to find his way into the grave yard, to incapacitate the grounds keeper, he had to find a shovel.  

His mind was in shambles, he came up behind the old man and very carefully put him into a hold and to deny his mind the oxygen it needed.   No, no.  John.  Not enough to kill him.  Let go.  Let Go, Let Go, LET GO.

His hands dropped, and he knelt down, pressing his fingers to the elder mans neck and feeling for a pulse.  Thankfully, he had stopped in time.  He was alive.  With a small sound he ran over to the grave,  digging first with his hands and nearly yelling at the ground.

"Holmes!"  

He won't answer.

"Holmes!  Sherlock!"  He growled the last bit, tossing aside the freshly turned dirt.  A shovel would be easier, but he couldn't spend the time trying to get one, and the dirt was loose enough that he could get enough out at a time.

How deep was he?  Six?  No,  It was far too shallow for six… Four?  Perhaps with the coffin in there, it would be around two or three feet of dirt?

How far in was he…one?  One and a half?  With a pained sound his fingers met with wood.  Great, there it was.  Now he just had to get the rest off.  It took him a little while, and he could hear nothing from inside of the coffin but he had to try.  

After about twenty or thirty minutes, he had no track of time, he stared at the wooden barrier between Sherlock and himself.

Tossing open the coffin he stared at what was inside with wide eyes, his heart leaping into his throat.

Sherlock's hands were up by his face, fingers bloody, nails worn down and all of his knuckles cracked.  He had been alive,  not long ago his love had been scratching to get out, panicking, screaming undoubtedly.  

"Holmes!"  John lurched forward, fingers pressing almost roughly to the carotid artery and waiting for his heart, waiting a painful second to feel that weak throb.

Please.  God, Please.

His eyes began to water, he had felt it, a pulse, Sherlock had a pulse.

He was alive.

Oh god, He was alive…

Johns arms wrapped about the smaller frame, pulling him out carefully spite both his knee and shoulder refusing to work.  Very gently he laid out the detective on the ground, pressing his ear to his chest and a hand on his face to simply listen, listen to the heartbeat grow stronger with the addition of real air, listen to Sherlock breathing.  Listen to the sounds of life from the man that people had almost left for dead.

"Sherlock…Holmes, Can you hear me?  Please…Please still be there."  His voice quivered obviously then, his own frame starting to shake.

But then those arms moved, weak, fragile, they moved and found their way around his back, holding him close.  "My Boswell…I did not…think you would come…"

Again he broke down, but for a different reason, the tears were of happiness, burying his face into the mans fresh clothes and sobbing.  

"I-I will always find you.   Don't you leave me again.."