Fic: A Hole In The World (Chapter 2)

[sherlocksscarf]

Post-Reichenbach. John struggles to cope with the loss of Sherlock. A mystery provides a distraction...or does it?

“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world,

which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime,

and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

Author note: Part 5 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story contains quite a few spoilers for the rest of the series, so it would probably make much more sense to read the series in order, as it tells how John and Sherlock got to this point.

Thanks to arianedevere and the detailed transcript of “The Reichenbach Fall” at her LJ site: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript

Many thanks to my beta, Skyfullofstars. Sky, thank you for making me stop and think harder about this story. It’s better because of you.

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very, very sad.

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, somewhat graphic slash. Major, major spoilers for Season 2.

Trigger warnings: Suicidal ideation; references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.

Please read and review!

Read Chapter 1


Trigger warnings for this chapter: Suicidal ideation.

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Chapter 2: Stop All The Clocks

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 “He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

    For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

― W. H. Auden

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“Why don’t you come with me today, John?”

Mrs. Hudson has dropped in again for “tea and sympathy,” as they say. She brought homemade scones and jasmine tea, and she sits beside me on the sofa, waiting for me to respond. She wants me to go with her to visit Sherlock’s…to visit Sherlock’s grave.

I didn’t go to the funeral. I haven’t been to the cemetery yet. I just can’t bring myself to see concrete proof that Sherlock is gone forever. I know, I know…it can’t be as bad to see the grave as it was to see his shattered, lifeless body on the sidewalk. And yet…

I’m not sure that I’ll ever be ready to see it.

“John?” her voice is gentle, but insistent. To buy time, I pick up the blueberry scone she has set on a plate beside me, and take a bite. She has slathered them in butter and lemon curd, trying to tempt me to eat.

It’s a ploy I used many times on Sherlock, and suddenly I’m cuddled up on this very sofa with Sherlock, and we’re playfully tussling for the last remaining scone. I’m not trying very hard, as I really do want him to eat, but it’s fun to wrestle with him, trying to snag a bite, watching his pink lips stretch wide as he tries to cram the last half of the scone into his mouth before I can.

Laughing at his bulging cheeks, I lean down to lick lemon curd from the luscious cupid’s bow of his lip, then allow my tongue to continue on a meandering journey from his lips, along his jawline to just below his ear. I feel his throat work as he gulps down the scone, and then he’s turning to kiss me, soft and deep, chuckling in that velvety baritone as he tightens his arms around me…

“John, dear?”

I’m shattered at the vivid memory, and have to press my clenched fists against my eyes to hold back the sobs rising in my throat.

Mrs. Hudson slides closer to me, and puts a motherly arm around my shoulder.

“It’s all right, dear. You don’t need to hold it in with me. Go ahead and cry for him.”

I don’t want to cry. I don’t. It’s so hard to stop. But she continues, “Of course you miss him, John. He was the center of your world. Everyone could see it.”

And I am undone. I can’t hold back the tears anymore. I bury my face in her knees, and sob my heart out into her lap, as Mrs. Hudson strokes my hair and murmurs soothing nonsense at me.

oOoOo

It’s been 45 days, 11 hours, and 5 minutes since Sherlock left me alone. 65,465 minutes since there was any point in existing.

I am sitting on the edge of our…my…neatly made bed. I’ve written a note of apology to Mrs. Hudson, but after my breakdown earlier today, she won’t be too surprised. I pick up Sherlock’s pillow, press my face into it, and breathe deeply, trying to smell him. I’ve done this too many times – the pillow smells like nothing in particular, no trace of Sherlock’s elusive, tangy scent left.

I remember something from a conversation Harry and I had a couple of years after our father killed himself. Harry said that the problem with losing someone to suicide, really, is that one is forced to accept suicide as a viable option. You know it is a legitimate way to escape the pain – you have firsthand evidence. And she added that, when you’re overwhelmed with grief, that promise of escape can seem terribly appealing.

Harry had a damn good point.

I lift my gun from the bedside table, rack the slide to make sure a bullet is chambered, and rest the barrel in my open mouth. I’ve done this so many times in the last six weeks, then changed my mind. One slight squeeze of the trigger, and I could be with him, wherever he is now. One little twitch of my finger, and all of this pain goes away.

Yet, I can’t quite bring myself to pull the trigger.

Sighing, I take the gun back out of my mouth, and sit, head hanging, and click the safety on and off again, on and off, over and over. He loves me, he loves me not…

My mobile buzzes on the bedside table. I ignore it, and it goes to voicemail. It buzzes twice more, then the text alert chimes. Sighing, I reach over to pick it up.

Really, John? I never thought you’d be a man to show the white feather.
MH

Bloody surveillance cameras. In this case, Big Brother literally is watching.

Piss off, Mycroft.

I’m only concerned for your wellbeing, Doctor.
MH

Sherlock is gone. Stop spying on me.

He certainly wouldn’t want me to let you do this.
MH

If he had cared about whether I lived or died, he wouldn’t have stepped off that roof.

Actually, it seems you would be wrong about that.
MH

Why?

The police released his phone from evidence today, and sent it to me. He recorded his conversation with Moriarty on the roof.
MH

It seems that he jumped in order to save your life, as well as those of Martha Hudson and Gregory Lestrade.
MH

My hands and lips feel numb, loose, as though I’ve been dosed with lidocaine. Is this a desperate ploy to stop me from committing suicide? Or did Sherlock die to save me?

I can provide you with a copy of the recording first thing in the morning. Put the gun away, John. Get some rest.
MH

I put the safety back on, place the gun in the drawer. I’ve waited this long. I can wait a bit longer.

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Read Chapter 3