JohnLock - One-shot [English]

Sherlock Holmes's heart

A chapter from my old account. Warning, spoilers on the whole series, and it's a bit sad. 

Enjoy your reading !

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Because John Watson had asked him to, Sherlock Holmes had agreed to put on a suit. Because John Watson had asked him, Sherlock Holmes had agreed to have his picture taken. Because John Watson had asked him, Sherlock Holmes had agreed to compose the music that would be played for Mr. and Mrs. Watson's first dance.

Because John Watson had asked, Sherlock Holmes had agreed to have his heart broken.

But he didn't realize it right away. It came much more insidiously. Looking back, he thought, maybe John could have seen it. If he hadn't been in love with Mary. Maybe.

It all started when he returned. That woman, Mary, was already there. And John had left with her. Sherlock was waiting for everything to go back to the way it was. He wanted to find his doctor, in Baker Street. He needed him in 221B.

But he had taken the cab, and left with her.

He had had a hope, at one point, that his doctor would come back. But he had continued to live with her. After each investigation, he returned to her. He no longer stayed up late to talk about what had happened.

So he had removed the chair. Because if John Watson was no longer at 221B Baker Street, then Sherlock Holmes didn't need two chairs.

It's a good thing Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a heart, otherwise he might have thought it was breaking from seeing the hopelessly empty chair.

If someone had looked closely enough, then perhaps that person could have seen that his armor was fracturing. That he wasn't so straight and proud anymore. And that, Moriarty was right. He was burning from the inside out, and he did have a heart.

But Mycroft knew nothing about this organ, and could not imagine that it could make anyone suffer.

But Lestrade was pretty dumb for a police lieutenant, and had never seen anything more between them than what they were showing.

But Mrs. Hudson was still upset with John for destroying her favorite couple to see past it.

But Molly was too busy trying to forget that kiss he had given her to thank her after the fall from the roof.

The worst part was when Sherlock got to know Mary. She was funny, charming, and above all, she could love John Watson freely. When he found out she was pregnant, it was the last straw.

When Sherlock walked away into the night, still hearing the laughter and music, he felt, for the first time in his life, his heart beat and break at the same time.

After that, he'd done the only thing he could, the only thing he knew. Investigate. Get lost in the arrest of another bad guy. Over and over again. There was never enough investigation, no one smart enough to keep him busy enough.

Then, Sherlock had discovered everything. In Magnussen's office, as he bled to death, he understood. She had lied.

In itself, it wasn't so much the fact that she had lied that he was so upset about. But the fact that she was going to hurt his doctor.

John Watson is a deeply upright and honest man. And the person he loves most lied to him. In the eyes. For years. He gave her everything, and he was suddenly going to be left with doubts, questions.

Would he believe Sherlock when he learned that he hadn't seen it coming? Or would he blame him too? He had promised at the wedding to protect them both. And he had failed to protect John from this woman.

But Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson. Deeply. And he could let him stomp on his heart again and again, if it made him happy.

So he did the only thing possible. Still wounded, he had investigated, because he had to understand, he had to, for John Watson, to know everything, and help him to make the best decision possible. For them, their family, their unborn child.

And the child was born. Don't get me wrong, Sherlock liked him (as much as it was possible to like a being that only cries, eats and poops).

But as he stood in the hospital, looking at his child with the brightest smile he'd ever seen on his face and tears in his eyes, one thought kept looping in his brain.

John Watson has a family.

Jokingly, he had said at the wedding 'you won't need me anymore'... It was true... So true. Much too true for him to bear.

But she was dead. He had regretted all that time blaming her for something she couldn't even control.

Mary had left a video, asking him to hit bottom, to sink, so that John would come and save him. She would never know that he was already hitting bottom. That knowing John didn't even want to see him had destroyed him more than he cared to admit.

He was going to hit rock bottom whether she asked him or not. But maybe now he had a valid excuse to do so? He wanted John to come to him, to care for him, to worry about him. He desperately needed his doctor.

Sherlock Holmes had hit rock bottom, and kept digging. Not even his brother, with the entire British government at his feet, could do anything about it. Even Molly and her logic could not change it. Even Mrs. Hudson and her kindness had been in vain. Even Lestrade and his beers and his investigations had come up empty.

Sherlock Holmes, for a moment, was amazed at how easy it had been to fall back into it. His doctor was no longer there to stop him, to control him, to give him a family to hold on to.

When he came home years ago and his brother told him that John Watson had gone on with his life, Sherlock Holmes replied, 'What life? I wasn't there. The reality was that he had no life when John wasn't there.

He had held on for two years because he had a goal, a purpose, that he knew at the end of the road, John Watson would be there to greet him.

But today, Sherlock Holmes' goal was to destroy himself. All he had to do was let himself go. Just a little. To let go of all barriers, without questioning, to give up, because he was asked to do so.

He let himself slide, losing as deeply as he could. Leaving nothing of all that John Watson had built. Destroy everything, let everything be ruined, his mind, his heart, his body...

Sherlock Holmes had burned his wings, was reduced to ashes. But his doctor, his John Watson, had allowed him to be reborn. Like the phoenix, he had become once again the greatest detective of all time.

Because John Watson had saved him.