WhoLock Imagines

Believe- Sherlock

Sorry for not updating for so long...

A deep, resounding hum filled the living room of 221B Baker Street as you dragged your bow across the A string of the cello. The noise was full and satisfying, the fading sound eagerly blending with your next note.

You had a concert in two weeks and took advantage of any time to practice. Your hand drifted back and forth, delicately holding the bow. Your other hand moved with precision to get to the next tone with proper tone and pitch.

The notes drifted through assortments of runs, staccatos, and slurs. There was no one around to distract you, so you let yourself dissolve into the music. To you, the song reminded you much of Sherlock. You couldn't help but think of him as you played, but that only brought you overwhelming sadness.

"Where's Sherlock?" You demanded as John re-entered 221B. "You left in a hurry after acting strangely- is everything okay?"

John looked up at you with tear filled eyes. He was shaking- whether from rage or sadness, you did not know. His mouth fell open as if he expected the words to fall out easily, but he found he couldn't speak coherently. John squeaked out a guttural noise before bursting into sobs. His hand flew up to his head to cover his eyes, the other reached for something to stabilize himself.

"Moriarty," he said lowly. "It was Moriarty."

The bow came to an abrupt stop against your will. The pleasant melody jerked to a halt.

Two years.

Two years ago that had happened.

Everyday you forced yourself to get up, get dressed, and act like everything was fine until it became a routine. Two years ago you lost your passion for music that you had carried since you were a child. But you still played the cello, no matter how hard it was.

You couldn't remember the sound of the violin- Not the way he played it, at least.

You believed in him.

"I believe in music the way people believe in fairytales- like you believe in the science of deduction. I hear melodies in the simplest of things and find harmonies in the tiniest of sounds. And you Sherlock- you are a symphony. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. But... every song comes to an end, right?"

You pressed your fingers to the cold, black marble and crouched down so you were level with the gold lettering that spelled out 'Sherlock Holmes' on the grave.

"I won't give up. I won't give up on you. I have to go, though. So I guess this is goodbye." You rearranged the assortment of bouquets and left.

Placing the cello onto the ground, you let the tears stream down your cheeks. You hadn't got that deep into the music since Sherlock had taken the fall...

You wanted to visit his grave. Something felt wrong about you moving on. John had done it: he had found Mary... Deep inside, you knew you would have to make an effort,

Faintly, the sweet voice of the violin crossed your ear. It was just like Sherlock's playing. The sound was so real to you, despite it being part of your imagination.

"No," you whispered. You pressed your fingers to your temple. "Stop."

But the song did not waver... It was right outside the door... Perhaps it was true.

You ran across the flat in a heartbeat, swinging the door open so hard the hinges squeaked roughly. And there he was.

It was like not a day had gone by. He looked exactly like he had before. Two years ago. It was Sherlock. The violin and bow in his hands lowered and the sound died away. He met your gaze with his always-stunning blue eyes.

"Sherlock," you breathed out.

"Hello Y/n," replied his beautiful voice. Immediately, you began to hear the ongoing music in the world again. "It appears that songs can be restarted. The end doesn't last forever."