#post-trf

But inside of you, something still pleaded;

That he'd still be there,

Waiting in his chair;

For as long as your exile had needed.

Chapter 4 of 6 is UP on AO3.

I am SOOO sorry this answer took so long! Better late than never? Taken from this list of prompts (which I am always taking, by the way). Thank you!

*

“I hate seeing you like this.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at Molly, standing to his left, her eyes trained on the headstone at their feet. His headstone. It had been a year since Moriarty... since he’d fallen... and it was the first time he’d been on English soil since then. Mycroft had vehemently argued against his return, even if it was just for the day. But Sherlock had calculated the risk, and was willing to take it.

Besides, with the short ginger hair and a matching beard, brown contact lenses, and a pair of spectacles to boot, who would recognize him?

Well... aside from Molly.

She always recognized him.

Her words registered, and Sherlock felt something twist inside him, something he couldn’t name. Uncomfortable and unused to the sensation, he attempted to sweep it under the metaphorical rug, muttering softly, “It’s the hair, isn’t it?”

Molly grinned, looking up at him. “The eyes.”

“I thought they rather suited me,” he pretended to be affronted.

Giggling softly, Molly shook her head. In the process, her eyes lighted once more on the name -- his name -- carved in stone. All traces of playfulness fled from her face, and she sighed. “Actually,” she whispered, “it’s this.”

The twisting feeling was back, and Sherlock shifted uneasily on his feet. “Well, I’m not really dead, am I?”

“No,” she agreed softly, “but you’re not here. Not really.” She sighed again. “You don’t come bursting into the lab, or the morgue, demanding to see someone’s kidneys. You don’t smoke your cigarettes in the corridor when you think I’m not paying attention. You don’t deduce everyone who walks through the door.” Her eyes shifted to him again. “I hate seeing you forced to be... not you.”

Sherlock had no response to that, but Molly didn’t seem to expect one. With a sad smile, she turned away from the grave and left him there. With every step, his insides twisted more and more, until he struggled to breathe. Annoyed by all the emotions he couldn’t name, Sherlock grumbled under his breath and shoved everything aside -- London, his friends, his work -- and turned his thoughts once more toward the task at hand. He still had much to do before Moriarty’s network would be truly disassembled, and that would require absolute focus.

Without another look at the false grave, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the cemetery behind.

Strangely, he was unable to do the same to that twisting sensation...

*

The absolutely stunningly brilliant @shelleysprometheus invited me to co-write a ficlet with her, and I was absolutely honored! She was inspired by the beautiful song Photograph by Ed Sheeran.

We keep this love in a photograph We made these memories for ourselves Where our eyes are never closing Our hearts were never broken And time's forever frozen, still

So here it is, in two parts. The first part from John’s POV is hers, the second part from Sherlock’s POV is mine. Photo manips by me.

John 

(by @shelleysprometheus)

It's crumbling and torn and tattered. It's stained and crinkled and crushed. It's falling apart. Just like him.

He remembers the exact instant he took it, that photo in his mind.

The most illogical moment, in the middle of a most ridiculous conversation, in the middle of a busy street, seriously, earnestly debating just how much of one’s enemies’ blood would be needed to forge a sword from it “really John, it completely depends on the type of sword, an average longsword at 1.1kg, 400 men, a contemporary scimitar with a .75kg blade on the other hand...”

“You're brilliant" he had blurted out.

And Sherlock had turned his head to face him, eyebrows together, curious then smiling, warmly, welcoming, dimply, crinkly.

That's his photograph. The one he summons when the pain becomes unbearable, when it's right before dawn and he doesn't feel like he has the strength to take another breath, survive another minute. When he's lost all hope, he summons that photograph and holds it until the world warms up a little.

But it feels like every time he holds it, it crumbles and tears and tatters little more. It stains and crinkles and crushes more than before. It's disappearing, just like him. He searches for it in the moments he is awake and in his dreams, desperately clutching at the edges trying to to draw it closer, trying to stop it from slipping away.

Like Sherlock did.

Sherlock

(by @88thparallel)

It’s creased through the middle, length and width split. There are stains at the edges where the paper is wearing thin, smudges revealing the spot where he unconsciously runs his thumb back and forth. Two corners are ripped away, and it bears the scars of being crumpled and contorted. It’s been through a lot. Just like him.

He can almost hear the click of the shutter, playing back the day he’d captured it.

The weight of the camera in his hands, tracking John through the viewfinder. Sherlock was sure the camera wasn’t haunted but agreed rule out technical error to appease the client. John had been talking to Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner as Sherlock tried to flag down cabs across the street. Tea and Canasta at their usual table outside of Speedy’s, so it must have been a Wednesday. They’d greeted Sherlock too, but only John had stopped to be cordial, enquire about Mrs Turner’s recent bunion surgery, and remark on the new seasonal scones Mr Chatterjee had recently introduced to the menu. And wasn’t that just like John, to remember and notice? To genuinely care?

He’d made a comment Sherlock couldn’t hear which caused both ladies to giggle and earned John a playful swat. John gave the women a wave and jogged across the street toward the taxi that now sat waiting. Sherlock had chosen that moment to click, biting back the smile that tried to peek out from behind his own indifferent façade.

John had turned to jog across the street, eyes bright, grin lighting up his face, chuckling to himself, genuine, happy, soft.

That's his photograph. The one he reaches for when the loneliness becomes overwhelming, when night has fallen on another long day in a foreign country and he can’t imagine how he can continue the hunt, to dismantle something so much larger than himself. He tries to memorize it for the times he can’t look at it, for the unthinkable possibility that one day he might lose it, or it might be taken from him; this, his only picture of John.

But as gently as he holds it, each time he unfolds it, the photograph wears even more. It tears and crumples and fades. It's worn out, just like him. When he's exhausted and aching, when he’s scared or angry or despairing, he reaches for that photograph and holds it until he remembers why he’s doing it all.

"As I was walking up the stair,

. I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today.

. I wish, I wish ... he'd go away."

. - William a Hughes Mearns

.

John had stepped into the flat only a handful of times since Sherlock's demise.

The pain of memories ... happy, whole, perfect memories ... too much to bear.

It was empty now. Their flat.

. Theirs.

. And it had been.

Once.

.

John steeled himself for what he was to face - going up those seventeen steps ...

The unshakable feeling that if he was just to turn around ... ?

Sherlock would be right behind him.

Coming up the stairs.

That if he turned back around ... Sherlock would be before him.

Beckoning him home.

.

John huffed a laugh.

Foolish.

His childish imagination.

But the last time he had been here, he could have sworn ...

.

He took one last look around to confirm that the hall and the landing were, in fact, empty.

Then he took a firm step forward. One.

Then two. Three.

.

He paused.

The hair on the back of his neck rising.

Shaking his head against the urge to look.

.

Don't turn around ...

. Don't turn around ...

. Don't turn.

.

He took another step.

Willing himself to keep moving.

.

A creak on a stair below him.

He isn't there ...

.

The echo of a step ...

Stop it!

.

John froze. Willing his eyes to stay downcast on his own shoes. He studied them. As worn and haphazard as his hope ...

Then forced himself once more, to move.

.

Three more steps. Two more steps. One.

His hand reached out for the door to 221B.

He took a deep breath.

.

This time the step behind him on the stair, was unmistakable ...

As was the fall of a large hand onto the wooden railing below.

.

"Sherlock?"

.

John spoke the name aloud before he could stop himself.

The stairwell was silent.

John's grip on the door handle tightened.

The tears stinging at the corners of his eyes ...

.

He took another deep breath.

His imagination.

Just his imagination ...

A wild, hopeful, god damned wishful and desperately-longing-for-all-of-this-to-be-just-a-magic-trick imagination ... begging the universe not for an empty stairwell ...

... but for an empty grave.

.

"I asked you for one more miracle," John told the air.

Oddly. The confession seemed to help quiet his nerves.

He looked up. Pinpointing the light of the setting sun.

"I asked you not to be dead."

He knew the words were final. Closure.

.

Somehow ... the air in the hall itself, held its breath ...

.

Then he heard a gasp.

And a heavy step below him.

Accompanied by the very real feeling ... Unmistakable.

That of a warm hand moving along a polished wooden rail. The slightest friction echoing up the stairs ...

.

John tried to steady his heart rate. His pulse thrumming in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound ... If it even had been real ...?

Sherlock's voice broke the silence next, barely a whisper ...

. "I heard you."

.

It sounded unsteady ... shaky ...

. fragile ... ?

Like a ghost.

.

But the next thing he heard was a very real hiss of pain, shattering his illusions ... even as he felt the thud of a body collapsing onto the stairs below.

John was down the stairs in seconds.

Gathering the long-missing detective into his arms. Every sense taking in and cataloguing what his eyes could not yet believe ...

(... continued below the cut)

by helloliriels

A thousand suns have risen, A thousand passing days, A thousand times I've wandered, My mind still in a haze ...

A thousand times I'm screaming, A thousand moons descend, A thousand times you fall, I cannot halt the end ...

A thousand mornings bleary, A thousand routines kept, A thousand little lies, "I'm fine", "Yes thanks", "of course I've slept" ...

A thousand cups of coffee, A thousand mugs of tea, A thousand times to question ... Just what you were to me?

A thousand times I listen, A thousand times you call; A thousand times I turn around, ... But you're not there at all.

A thousand times I lie here, A thousand what if's deep, It seems that even when awake, I'm talking in my sleep ...

Maybe Scheherezade knew best, To change the tale each night ...?

I've counted, A thousand and one ways ...

I'd choose,

If I

Could keep you

Right.

Since the Oscar Award ceremonies are tonight ... I thought it a good time to kick off some awards to the fandom for brilliant and outstanding performances.

🥇 KHORAZIR - NIGHTJET

For a unique and brilliant post-TRF fix-it fic! Just in time!

I am Sherlocked. Join me in honouring your favorite fics and art now through April 15th! Award season is ON!!! (Click on GiF if play does not start automatically) ✌️(Have I been saving this for March 12th?? Why yes... yes I have)

'What if I'm down? What if I'm out? What if I'm someone you don't want around? I'm falling again ...'

John's letter to Sherlock after Mary's death.

Maybe in confessing why he's not o.k. ... he's really pushing Sherlock out of his life for good.

How could such a disclosure not?