Where We Started

Back to the Future

He couldn't see much, and the very thought of concentrating on something when he was in the land of twirling colors and shapes was preposterous, but he just tried to pick the time when he guessed Sherlock would need the most company, if he hadn't already passed it. John thought, screwed his eyes shut and thought as hard as he could until finally, with a great lurch, he was thrown onto the ground. Johns tumbled slightly, falling into a white painted wall as he tried to use his legs. He ripped the ring off of his finger immediately, in case it would make him go even more forward in this mess of time and space. Once his eyes adjusted to the poor lighting, there were small lamps light on the walls, he saw that he must be in some type of hospital, but it looked much more modern than the one Sherlock and he had been quarantined in. But it took him a moment to notice he had appeared next to wooden door with a small tag on it, and on the tag, in neat handwriting, it read Sherlock Holmes. He had, indeed, found him one last time. John looked around, seeing a nurse walk past far away, dressed in the older clothing of course, he was only happy to see she was mask free. He had no idea what year he was in, or even what town he was in, but he opened the door and slipped quietly inside. Upon entering the room he saw that there were about three beds pushed up against the wall, and only one of them was occupied. An old man, having to be between eighty or ninety, lay in one of the beds with his eyes closed, numerous needles and tubes poking out of his arms.
"Sherlock?" John asked nervously, not able to believe this old man was what had become of his friend, not when the kiss was still fresh on his lips, he could still smell the scent of the island, how did time work like this? The old man's eyes opened, they were still green, but they were filled with cataracts and very dim. Sherlock's once beautiful skin was old, pale, and filled with wrinkles, his curly hair was only a couple of grey strands clinging desperately to his skull, he was almost unrecognizable.
"Sherlock it's me, it's John." John said, feeling tears welling up in his eyes as he stared at his ancient friend.
"Doctor?" he croaked, turning his head to look at John. But there was no wide eyed amazement, no gasp of recognizing, no sign that he remembered John at all. His once smooth and baritone voice was dry and raspy, as if it had underwent years of use, he was merely a withered out remain of his past teenage self. It felt odd, knowing that maybe a minute ago John had just kissed him, even a little bit disturbing.
"Don't you remember me; I'm John, the deadbeat who lived in your barn!" John pointed out. Sherlock didn't look any differently.
"How am I doctor?" he asked again, obviously not recognizing John at all.
"I'm not a doctor? Don't you remember me Sherlock?" John begged, trying to make him somehow make his realize.
"You remind me of him." Sherlock decided.
"Well I wonder why."
"Doctor, you sort of look like John." Sherlock said, gazing out the window, straight through John, and smiling slightly to himself. "Have I ever told you of John? Oh how I loved him, we were soul mates you see?" Sherlock pointed out. John felt a tear slide down his cheek, why couldn't Sherlock see him? He was standing right here, why couldn't he remember him?
"I'm right here, I am John!" John said louder, as if he maybe hadn't seen him.
"The first time I saw him I knew, he was the one for me, he looked so taken with me to begin with, there's a spark in their eyes, there always is." Sherlock coughed again, a hacking cough not unlike the one on the island. "He was so handsome, his golden hair, hazel eyes the color of chocolate, he was the most perfect man I have ever seen, and apparently I did something right because I was able to finally kiss him, under a pine tree, all those years ago."
"Sherlock, I'm standing right here!" John insisted, not wanting to grab Sherlock's hand in case he gave him a heart attack or something.
"But he left me, he had to go home, he promised he'd come back, but I was alone for the rest of my life. I watched for him every day, hoping that maybe this would be the day." Sherlock sighed. "I suppose it's too late now." He sighed.
"Sherlock it's me, it's John, please why can't you see me?" John debated.
"But now it's my turn, I'll see him you see, in heaven, I just have to wait, and I will, I've waited my entire life, now I have to wait for his to be over." Sherlock decided, looking determined.
"You can't die Sherlock, I just got here." John pointed out, but he couldn't help but remember where he had focused on, Sherlock's death. He was here to witness his boyfriend die, ninety years old and unable to recognize him.
"Oh John, I'll see you soon." Sherlock sighed, looking up at the ceiling.
"Sherlock no, don't die, please why can't you see that it's me?" John insisted, his voice louder than ever.
"Thank you Doctor, for everything, I'm off to see my John now." Sherlock decided, and he closed his eyes, letting out a soft breath and then was still. At first John thought he was playing around, pull of an old man mask and yell April fools or something, but Sherlock was still, and it was the middle of June.
"Sherlock?" John said in a defeated, still voice. Sherlock's chest, covered with a thin cotton hospital gown, didn't rise or fall and his eyes didn't open again. "Sherlock!" John screamed, finally understanding what was happening, Sherlock was dead. He rushed to the old man lying in the bed, not sure what to do, but thankfully he didn't have the time to find out. Nurses rushed in, followed by some doctors, but they saw the body and sighed in realization. John's face was now soaked in tears, staring down at the man in the bed and not daring to believe this was his Sherlock, the teenager he had just left behind.
"You've got to save him, somehow, you just have to!" he insisted, pointing feverishly at Sherlock, trying to get the nurses or doctors to give a crap about his old friend and start their miracle cures. The nurses shook their heads silently, except one, who looked at John with amazement.
"Blond hair, chocolate eyes, no way, you're him aren't you?" she asked in a surprised voice. John was still, not sure how many nurses Sherlock had told about him. But now that they all looked at him they all looked amazed, they knew just who he was.
"Oh my god, you're that John he never shuts up about, where in the world did you come from?" another asked.
"Way too young, can't be..."
"That's disgusting..." a nurse muttered. John smiled guiltily, but he wasn't about to launch into his defense, he'd land himself in a 1690's mental asylum for sure. So, taking one last look at Sherlock, his Sherlock, or what remained of him, still laying still in the bed, John put the ring back on his finger, feeling his feeble heart break slightly.
"Goodbye Sherlock." He decided, spinning the ring and closing his eyes as the colors and shapes returned. Now he focused on his world, his home, Mike, his parents, leaving all thoughts of the past out of his head, he couldn't end up there, not again. And then it stopped once again, and he collapsed onto a sidewalk, the sun beating down on his skin, the concrete scraping his knees. But when John looked up he saw that he wasn't just on any sidewalk, he was on his sidewalk, the one he walked every day, this was his home. He had made it. The shutters were the same; the windmill still spun in the garden, the grass was green, the house puffing cheery smoke out of the chimney. John crawled to his feet, not daring to believe it. Had anytime even passed? He pulled open the screen door, finding the door unlocked and walking easily inside. It was his own house, nothing changed even though his entire life seemed to have changed. So this was it, normal, 21st Century life, no plague, real electricity, and cars, everything he could have wanted, except Sherlock. But even a time jump couldn't erase his memory, he never forgot Sherlock, no matter how hard things got or how lonely he felt even with Mike and his family, he would remember that goofy, flirtatious smile, that happy go lucky violin player, and his days seemed to brighten a bit. And every day, on the anniversary of their meeting, he would take the bus to Nottingham and set a fresh bouquet of flowers on the simple, weathered marble gravestone, sitting lonely near a tree. Sherlock Holmes, it read, but it didn't feel like Sherlock was indeed buried under the grass. It was like he could walk out from behind the tree any moment, as if John had never witnessed his head, it was almost impossible to believe. And yet he never saw him again, but he never forgot, and soon, when it was his turn to sit in the hospital bed as an old man, he mindlessly rambled to the nurses about his first and only love, about his raven black curls, his startling green eyes, and how he was about to see him soon.

A/N: Okay so honestly I had no idea how this story would go over. It's kind of abstract with a WhoLock thing, but not really. But anyway I had this idea and then like a week later I put it into writing, so it was also kind of winged it. But anyway, I loved writing and I hope you guys liked it as much as I do! The next story coming up is kind of like an adult Sherlock thing, I guarantee you've never read anything like it :). But now I am writing the sequel to Luck Goes Both Ways, and if all goes well that will get up to 300 pages so if another story ends I really don't know what is going to happen. I might publish the sequel as I write it, and then I'll only have two circling. But that's okay. I guess. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you guys enjoy the next could of stories coming up!