Angels Don't Lie
Angels lie, that's John's deduction. Sherlock was an angel and Sherlock lied, therefore, angels lie.
He had said, Sherlock. He had promised. He'd promised that he would stand by his side, that they both would, to each other's, no matter what. That everything would be fine, that he would take Moriarty down. He had promised, to always be there. Now he's gone, dead.
But he's still there, John. At first he couldn't stand it, to be near that flat – far less in it –, but after some time, he was drawn back to it. Back to Mrs. Hudson, and the dark wallpaper with the painted smiley face – and the bullet holes –; back to the memories and the messiness. It's destroying him, some say, but it's necessary; he can't live like this, but he can't live without it.
He goes to the clinic, and works side by side with a so very obvious Sara. He goes out, from time to time, have a drink with Greg or Mike and listens to them and comments and laughs in all the socially right moments. He drinks tea and eats pies with Mrs. Hudson, while watching some nonsense show. But that's not him; that man who goes to work, chats with friends and keeps company to a lady, it's just an image: the image those people have from him, the mask that he so neatly creates so he won't crack, so they won't see him crack.
It's at the end of the day, at the wee hours of the night, when he's sitting in his armchair, cup of tea in hand, when the true, the new John Watson appears. He's melancholy and sadness, he's angst and longing. He's the man that realizes how much of a fool he was, for believing what was obviously a lie. Yet, night after night, he finds reasons to believe in that man, for, like he had said, there's no way on Earth someone could fake being such a dick.
His nights are filled with demons and ghosts, either asleep or awake. They are his only company trough the darkness and solitude, the emptyness and meaningless that Sherlock left behind. They hide behind the walls; they crawl on the floor, under his bed; they look at him with pleading eyes or mocking faces; they tempt him by the licuor bottles and the kitchen knifes. It surprises him, though, how they seem to run away, scared, when he pulls his gun out.
And night after night, he feels his resolutions fade, bit by bit. He's still not sure if he will go for the alcohol or the knifes. Or perhaps the gun?
And in the meantime, he will keep asking himself "why did he had to leave me?", and the laughing shadows and mocking faces will keep answering "because you were nothing to him."
Russia was cold that time of the year, but the tall, young man didn't mind in the slightest. He could go through hell and he wouldn't mind it.
People passed him by, oblivious, too busy with their tedious little lives.
His cellphone ringed. With slender, leather gloves covered fingers he fished it out of his pocket. He's loosing it - MH, it said. The man stared at the little screen.
Rainy night, like many in London. Pitch dark, filled with secrets and threats. Perfect for him to loose his composure.
The alcohol pleasently burnt its way down his throat, giving some form of shallow confort. But a single sip, a single drink wouldn't do for him, for him sorrow, for his pain. He refilled the glass with scotch, sitting on his usual place, meeting an empty chair.
And the night grew darker, his hands shaking and sight blurry, his life reduced to nothing.
He could not remember going to bed. In fact, he could only remember a handful of things from the night before, and none of those included his bed.
His head was killing him, light entered his room through the curtains and the sound of rain could be heard. John stayed still for a moment, not knowing what to do, where to go next. After a few minutes he noticed it.
The rain easily covered the faint sound of breathing that came from behind him, and at first he tought it was his own imagination. When he figured out it was either true or he had actually went mad, he took a deep breath and rolled over. A soft cry ripped out of his throat.
It was odd, not because it was Sherlock – died nearly three years ago Sherlock –, but because he was asleep, a rare thing indeed. He looked exactly as John remembered him, with his long curls and his ageless face.
A smile spread across his face and he forgot everything about the other night; last night, had been he's last one accompanied only by his demons and ghosts. It had been his last night without the person he loved and needed the most.
Angels don't lie, John deduces. They just keep their promises in their own particular ways.
Based in the line "angels lie to keep control", of the Slipknot song Snuff (one of my favorites, may I say) and the song Angels, by Within Temptation. First Johnlock fic… and it's an angsty one, damn it. There's some romance by the end, but the angst took control of me (as tends to happen). Any mistakes, let me know. Au Revoir.