Almost Lover (a Johnlock Fanfic)

Chapter 6: Aftermath

He fell.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

There was a small splash.

John gasped for breath. He peered over the side of the bridge, into the murky river. It was choppy, thick with incoming waves, as if the sea itself reflected John's mood. Angry. Was he angry? Emotions were mixed inside him, like the wrong ingredients of a recipie. John couldn't help himself from letting out a small whimper. From letting his vision blur. For him to feel like throwing up. He felt like acid had wormed its way into his stomach.

And a single, salty tear made it's way down his cheek, and falling, hitting the water with a splat that was inaudible over not only the harsh waves, but the white noise in John's ears. He felt like screaming. Shouting. Yelling to the world that-

John woke up screaming.

"Everything all right, love?" A hand was placed on his shoulder. "Go back to sleep, John." It caressed his arm gently.

John looked over at his girlfriend Mary Morstan and smiled. He slumped back into his pillow, turning away from her to hide the misery on his face. He checked his alarm clock. 2:07 AM on March 6th. It had been three whole weeks since John had watched Sherlock fall from the Waterloo bridge.

The strange thing was, nothing had happened. Nothing. It was as if Sherlock had blinked out of existance. John had scanned the halls for a trace of him. Sherlock hadn't showed up in the few classes they shared, so John had decided to take a trip to Speedy's Sandwich Bar & Cafe. He asked Mrs. Hudson where he had been, but she told John that she hadn't seen him since Valentine's Day.

Then Mary had come along. Febuary 15. The sky showed a rarely seen sunshine, shining high over London. The complete opposite of John's mood. His eyes had been trained at the ground, his eyebrows bent, his mind clouded with thoughts. He was crossing the street to get to the collage when a car had zoomed out of nowhere and almost crushed John if Mary hadn't come in. She looked like an angel with her blond halo of hair and white faux-fur jacket.

But John's girlfriend had no idea what was going on in John's head. A war, a ferocious battle raged. A battle between being depressed over his ex-boyfriend's suicide, and the side that wanted him to enjoy everything he had-a beautiful girl, countless friends. A good life. But as John stared vacantly out the window, he was filled with a hollowness that only came from victory over the darkest side in him. John sighed inwardly.

***

Mycroft Holmes. A reclusive man that John had never seen. But Mycroft had seen him. Or at least, heard about him. Mycroft was the only other person who was awhare of Sherlock's death. And he was now sitting in front of his supposed dead brother, calmy sipping tea.

"Sherlock, you can't go on like this." He rolled his eyes and gave his brother a knowing look.

"Why shouldn't I?"Sherlock plucked at his violin. It was out of tune and needed work. Rather than lounging on the couch, Sherlock sat up, his back straight. He looked his brother in the eye.

"I have spies everywhere, as you very well know," Mycroft began. "They've been," He paused. "observing John. By observing, Mycroft clearly meant spying over John's every movement, as they had his. It was Mycroft's spies that had saved his life.

His vision blurred as he fell. Wind whistled through his ears, but Sherlock couln't remember any wind before the fall. He flailed his arms out, and a shot of adrenaline burst through his body. Then he hit the water. It felt like someone had slapped him, and in a way that was true. It was a huge spanking from the river, like he was a toddler being spanked for stealing. It stung like fire, but the cool water helped ease the pain. Why am I not dead yet, he thought. He saw John in the corner of his vison. His mouth was open. Maybe he was calling out, but Sherlock couldn't tell over the harsh waves, and the roar of the white noise in his ears. Stars danced in front of his vision, swirling around and around until they blotted out almost everything. His breath slowed. Then the voices came, in hushed whispers, and low-voiced commands. A hand on his arm. Dragging him out of the water and onto the sand and river rocks on the bank of the river. Something was raised to his lips, and spilled down his throat. Cool water. Sherlock tried to ask for more but all that came out was a miserable croak. A small needle was injected into his arm and his eyes rolled back into his head.

"Mycroft-" Sherlock warned.

"He's distrought, Sherlock. He needs you."

"He has Mary," Sherlock tried not to shudder at the thought of John being in another relationship. He tried not to let his emotions show, but as always, failed. It was like his skin casing of emotion had a paper cut, and drops of blood were slowly pooling at it's surface.

"Sherlock, take a look at these." Mycroft extended a red file to Sherlock, and Sherlock took the file, not eagerly. It was heavier that he had thought. He accidentally let go of the file and papers fluttered down onto the rust colored rug. Some landed down, but most landed up. On the carpet now lay a collage of photos of John. John holding hands with Mary at Speedy's Sandwitch Bar & Cafe. John at a pub, laughing with some guys from the collage. John smiling as he called someone on his mobile phone.

But there were pictures that revealed John's darker sides. John leaning over the Waterloo Bridge the day after Sherlock had jumped. John screaming in his apartment. John glaring daggers at someone who was out of the picture. Sherlock reached for the middle of the pile. The photograph he pulled out was the one that spoke to him the most. John's apartment window framed a picture of him, head in his hands. Even though it was just a photograph, the tear streaks glistened down his cheeks were obvious.

Sherlock blinked back tears from his eyes. He didn't know what to say. He only knew what he had to do.

***

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