Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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Prompting: Part VIII
Giggles at the Palace
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  • 1

Wake up

John dies and Sherlock blames himself, so much so that the guilt begins to affect his life. However he keeps getting dreams of John talking to him and assuring he's not dead. Eventually Sherlock doesn't seem to know reality from dreams and everyone around thinks he's crazier than usual.

As it is, Sherlock was in coma for awhile and John, very much alive, had been by his bedside constantly and talking to him in hopes he wakes up.

Inspired by my favorite Futurama episode.

I remember this episode! Seconding!

Re: Wake up

This sounds amazing, but it cracks me up that it's a Futurama ep. lol
I would love to see this come into being.

Oh! God I want to see this so bad.

Re: Wake up

OMG. I adore this episode. <3

Might take me a few days, but so on this.

Waking You Up 1/21

(So, um, I got a little bit carried away with this, and it ended up much longer than I'd planned, and maybe went slightly off track. Hope you still like it, OP!)


They tell him to wait, but he doesn’t listen. They’re too slow, and the thief leaves his flat – which Sherlock did not enter, so he listened partially, at least, though mostly that was because John’d insisted on just standing vigil outside (“For once, Sherlock, let the police be the ones to break into the criminal’s flat”). The thief – Alan Henrickson, he’d been clever, but not clever enough – is obviously not planning on returning, and Lestrade and the others are much too far away, so Sherlock follows him. And of course, John follows Sherlock. The thief seems to have been expecting someone, though, because he notices them quickly, and the chase is on.

It ends in an alleyway, a dead end, with no sign of Henrickson and yet nowhere else he could have gone.

“Are you sure he came down this way?” John asks.

“Of course I’m sure,” Sherlock snaps. “He must be hiding somewhere.”

John looks down the alley with a frown. “I called Lestrade and updated him. Don’t suppose you’ll wait until they get here?”

Ah, so that was what had slowed him down slightly a few moments ago. Sherlock gives John a look that expresses exactly what he thinks of that suggestion.

“Didn’t think so. Shall we, then?” John asks.

They step into the alleyway, searching cautiously. Sherlock scans everything, every possible hiding spot, for signs of occupancy.

“Look, mate, you might as well come out,” John says. “You’ve got nowhere to go, and it’ll make things easier for everyone.”

“Easier for you, you mean,” Henrickson says from behind Sherlock.

Sherlock whirls around to find the thief, less than half a metre away from him. Far too close for comfort.

“Prison isn’t exactly the easier path for me, is it?” the thief asks, something gleaming in his right hand.

Sherlock’s eyes are drawn to it, a large, wickedly curved knife. “John,” he says.

“I see it,” John replies.

The thief takes a step towards Sherlock, and Sherlock instinctively takes a few back, until he’s almost up against the skip he’d been looking at.

“You don’t want to do this, Henrickson,” John says in his understanding, sympathetic doctor voice.

It’s not all faked, Sherlock knows. John had been sympathetic towards the thief. Dying of an illness caused by poor working conditions, unable to pay for expensive, experimental treatment because the company that should have been held responsible wasn’t. Henrickson was the only one who’d gotten so sick; it was determined to be outside sources.

“You’re right, I don’t,” the thief says. “You could just let me go. No one got hurt that didn’t deserve it.”

“The people you stole from were victims just as you were,” John says softly. “I understand the need for revenge, but why go after your colleagues?”

“None of them got sick like this,” Henrickson says bitterly. “They still have their jobs, don’t they? They were supposed to be my friends, but they turned against me. When I needed them most.”

“They were scared,” John says. “But some of them are willing to testify, now, you could-”

“It’s too late,” the thief interrupts. “They had their chance. Now this is all I’ve got left.”

“You’re not a killer,” John tells him. “You didn’t even want to be a thief.”

Henrickson hesitates, though his grip on the knife stays solid.

“That necklace you took from Bill Stevenson? It was his favourite aunt’s. It’s all he had left of her. Andy Picken, you called him your best friend? Turns out that money was for his niece. He’s paying her school fees, how’s she supposed to have a future now?” John asks.

The thief sags a bit. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to live.” Then he straightens. “No. They earned this. And you won’t let it go.”

“Think this through,” Sherlock says. “Right now, it’s just stealing. If you give it back, some of them won’t press charges. If you do this, it’s murder.”

There’s another hesitation, this one longer. “My sister’s waiting for me. We’re going out of the country, where I can get treatment. If I kill you, there won’t be any charges at all.”

Waking You Up 2/21

He lunges, before he’s even done speaking, so quickly that the hesitation must have been faked. And Sherlock missed it, he missed it, his eyes had been flicking back and forth from the man’s face to the knife. Sherlock barely has enough time to know to expect pain from the knife before something slams into him. He crashes to the ground, bruised, but – no stabbing pain. And he’s been stabbed before; he knows what it feels like.

Sherlock twists around to see John and the thief fighting each other, where Sherlock had been standing moments ago. He stands, ready to assist, but John lands a sharp left hook under Henrickson’s chin, and the thief goes down.

“Well done,” Sherlock says with a smile. Another criminal caught, although now comes the boring part where they have to wait for the police. The part he’d take out, were his life a movie, and cut directly to them arriving. He hopes they don’t take too long.

John staggers slightly, and Sherlock stops smiling.

“John?” he asks.

“He’s out,” John replies, voice shaking. “Should be for long enough, until they get here, but I’m not sure, I can’t-” He takes a few steps towards Sherlock, stumbles on the last one, but Sherlock’s there to keep him upright.

“Thanks,” John says, then glances down. “I think I need to lie down, actually.”

Sherlock follows his gaze, and has to stave off panic. The hilt of the thief’s knife is sticking out from John’s chest, just under his right pectoral, blood leaking sluggishly from the wound, staining John’s jumper. The hilt’s trapped between John’s hands, bunches of John’s jumper caught in his fingers as he presses the fabric hard around the knife.

“He was going to stab me,” Sherlock says quietly.

“Yes, but he didn’t, did he?” John replies. “I can’t – can you help me down?”

Sherlock sinks to the ground, slowly, then, when John tries to sit up a bit, shifts to lay John’s upper body in his lap.

“Thanks,” John says again, and Sherlock fights the absurd urge to tell him, ‘wrong.’ Wrong, John was the one who saved him, John should be the one being thanked.

“You need to go to the hospital,” Sherlock says, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Yeah,” John agrees. “But it’s deep, Sherlock, I can feel it, it’s – moving stimulates blood flow, I need to stay still, I need to-” He pauses, takes a few shaky breaths. His face has gone white, Sherlock notes.

Sherlock’s fingers fly across his phone’s keypad as he texts Lestrade.

John’s been stabbed. Being help. Hurry. SH

Then he drops his phone, unwinds the scarf from his neck, and reaches for the knife.

“Don’t take it out,” John warns. “It’s too deep, it’ll lose blood faster.”

Sherlock looks affronted. “I’m not an idiot, John. I do pay attention to you.”

He pries John’s fingers out of his jumper, and presses the scarf around the knife, trying hard to ignore that the person the knife is stuck in is John.

“A little more pressure,” John says, covering Sherlock’s hands with his own and pressing them harder. “Don’t be afraid to hurt me, it’s fine.”

Fine. That’s easy for John to say, John isn’t the one applying pressure to a knife in his best friend’s chest.

“What else can I do?” Sherlock asks.

“Nothing,” John says. “You told Lestrade to bring help, right? Then just stay there. It’s deep, and I think-” He pauses to take a breath, and it sounds wet and ragged. “Never mind. I’ll stay still, keep elevated, keep pressure, it’ll-” Another breath. “It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock forces himself to pay attention to John’s hands over his, to ignore the slide of blood – blood, John’s blood – to concentrate on applying pressure, not to listen to John’s difficulties with breathing.

“This is my fault,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Probably,” John agrees easily.

Sherlock’s startled away from staring at John’s wound, and looks at his face. John is smiling at him, though since his lips are pressed together so tightly they’ve all but disappeared, it’s more of a pulling the corners of his mouth in a vaguely upwards direction.

Waking You Up 3/21

“Be horrible if that was the last thing I ever said to you, wouldn’t it?” John asks. “And you know I’m not the kind to say horrible things with my last breath. So, there you are, then. Now you know I won’t be dying.”

Sherlock would believe that speech more if John hadn’t had to pause numerous times to draw sucking, ragged breaths. “Stop talking, John, you’ll only make it-” He cuts off as he hears a groan from behind him.

The thief. Obviously starting to wake up.

“John,” Sherlock whispers urgently. “I need you to apply pressure yourself for just a few moments.”

John moves his hands, then replaces them on the scarf after Sherlock lets go.

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock says, gently moving John from his lap and standing.

When he turns around, though, it’s to the sight of a fist flying towards his face. There’s a burst of pain as it connects, and then nothing.

Waking You Up 4/21

Sherlock comes to on something much softer than the ground, though not as soft as a bed. He forces his eyes open, pausing to adjust to the pain and brightness. Blinking a few times clears his vision, and he sits up. He’s in the back of an ambulance.

“Welcome back,” someone says. “How’re you feeling?”

Sherlock stares at the concerned paramedic. “Like someone punched me in the face. Where’s John?”

“Not surprising,” the paramedic replies. “You’ve got a concussion, and you’ll have a nasty bruise for a bit, but you’ll be all right.”

“Yes, fine, I don’t care,” Sherlock says, getting up. “Is John all right?”

The paramedic frowns at him. “All right, fine. I should be keeping you here, but Lestrade told me not to bother. He said to send you to him when you got up. He’s over there.”

Sherlock leaves the ambulance without responding, making a bee-line for Lestrade. Lestrade is talking to another officer, but he doesn’t care. “Where is he?” Sherlock demands.

Lestrade looks at him, then nods at the other officer, who leaves. Without the officer blocking his view, Sherlock can see behind Lestrade. Can see the vague form of a body on the ground. Sherlock shoves past Lestrade, ignoring his name being called, and stumbles towards the body.

No. No, it can’t be him, it can’t, but there’s the knife hilt, and – Sherlock gets close enough to see the body’s face, and stops. It’s the thief. He lets out an unsteady breath.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and turning him around.

“What happened?” Sherlock asks.

“John said he jumped you while you were trying to help him. Knocked you out cold, John had to pull him off you.” Lestrade nods towards the body. “He got the bastard with his own knife.”

Sherlock frowns. “The last time I saw that knife, it was in John’s chest.”

Lestrade smiles, a bit, and it’s one of admiration. “Son-of-a-bitch pulled the damn knife out of his own chest to save you.”

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, because there’s a tight, confusing affection muddling his thoughts, and he doesn’t understand. Why did he have to use the knife? “Where is he?”

Lestrade’s eyes flick to the left, very briefly, but Sherlock catches it. He turns that way, and sees an ambulance, not the one he was in. Sherlock starts for it, once again ignoring Lestrade calling for him.

John must not have been hurt too bad, if he’d been able to take out their attacker, but the knife wound had been deep. Sherlock needs to see if –

“Sherlock.” Lestrade grabs his arm, stopping him forcibly. “Will you listen to me for one second?”

What?” Sherlock snaps impatiently, trying to pulls his arm from Lestrade’s grasp.

“John-” Lestrade starts, then falters.

Sherlock goes still. No.

Lestrade releases his arm and straightens, shoulders squared. His jaw is set tight, mouth soft and sympathetic, eyes trying to hide grief but not succeeding. Sherlock knows this version of Lestrade. He’s seen him talking to the husbands, wives, siblings, parents of a fallen fellow officer. Sherlock’d never thought he’d meet him. No.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, voice soft, gravelly with suppressed grief. “They tried everything, but we just didn’t get here in time. John didn’t make it.”

For the first time in Sherlock’s life, without the aid of any form of substance, his world completely stops. It doesn’t black out, or white out, or even go gray, it just stops. He doesn’t see, can’t hear, doesn’t feel, can’t smell. He can’t feel his heartbeat, or hear his breath, and he doesn’t think – doesn’t think anything. Doesn’t even think no, not John. There’s just nothing.

Then it starts back up again, everything at once. A hundred conversations, a thousand smells, the wind tugging his hair, Lestrade standing in front of him, the ambulance beyond that. And thoughts, thoughts, dozens of thoughts running through his head like normal, except instead of observations, cataloguing little details, all of the thoughts are screaming, muttering, crying, cursing. John.

Waking You Up 5/21

Sherlock shoves Lestrade away and runs for the ambulance. He doesn’t believe him. It isn’t possible; there isn’t a force on this earth that could take John Watson away from it if he didn’t want to go. Not even death.

He makes it to the ambulance and jumps inside. There are no paramedics. Sherlock considers yelling for them to get back inside here and do their damn jobs, but he stops when he sees the gurney. John’s laying on it – it must be John, even though there’s a blanket over him and it’s been pulled over his head.

“Idiots,” Sherlock mutters. How is John supposed to breathe that way? He was having enough trouble breathing before, he doesn’t need some idiot paramedics leaving blankets on his face. These paramedics should be fired. Or perhaps shot.

Sherlock leans over and rips the blanket off. It’s John. His eyes are closed, faint signs of bruising, there’s a cut on his mouth that wasn’t there the last time Sherlock saw him. It’s proof. John isn’t dead, he can’t be dead if he’s changed like that. Dead people don’t acquire new injuries, not unless Sherlock’s been at them.

The knife’s gone. Sherlock’s hands go automatically to where they’d last been, over John’s wound. His jumper is stained with even more blood now. But it’s ripped down the middle. Not ripped. Cut. The paramedics. Cut it down, peeled it back, to bandage the wound, but then they’d folded it back afterwards. Strange. Like they’d wanted him to look just the way he’d been. But they’re wrong, this is wrong. John won’t want to wake up to a torn and bloody jumper. He likes this jumper. He’ll be upset. It will impede his recovery. Better to delay telling him.

Sherlock pushes back the jumper, intending on taking it off, but he stops when notices there’s no bandage on John’s wound. Anger fills him, sharper and deeper than anything he’s felt before. He puts his hands over John’s wound, pressing down hard, keep it closed, keep the blood from –

There’s no blood.

He lifts his hands gently and looks down. There’s no blood flowing from the hole in John’s chest. He stares, for a long time, as long as Sherlock can hold his own breath and longer, but John’s chest doesn’t move. Sherlock puts his hand down, on the left side of John’s chest, leaves it there for longer than he’d ever dare to, were John alive – awake – but there’s nothing. He checks both wrists, his neck. No pulse. He leans in, ear pressed to John’s lips, but there’s no breath.

Sherlock moves back, looks down. His hand trembles as he reaches for John’s face, opens his eyes.

It’s only then that he believes. John has never looked at him like that. Would never look at him like that. There is nothing in John’s eyes. He looks away quickly, because meeting not-John’s gaze is making his chest hurt. He looks back at the wound instead, running his hands over it.

Deep. John said it was deep. Sherlock sticks his fingers in it to measure, because he has to know how deep, how many centimetres were enough to take John from him. Before he gets an accurate measurement, it starts to feel like someone’s watching him. Sherlock looks up, and sees John’s eyes, still open.

John’s watching him, and Sherlock’s got two fingers inside him.

Sherlock shudders and pulls his hand away. He’s had that thought before. Not when narrating what he’s doing, but during one of the few times he’s allowed himself to fantasize. If it ever goes – if it’d ever gone – from fantasy to narration, it can’t be like this.

He closes John’s eyes again.

“You lied to me,” he says. His voice sounds strange, but he doesn’t know why. “You said the last thing you said to me wouldn’t be horrible, but it was. Well, technically it wasn’t, because the last thing you said to me was an explanation for saying the horrible thing. But that doesn’t count, because your explanation implied that you considered the thing you said before to be the last thing you’d ever say, should you die, and then you did. Even though you said you wouldn’t. That’s twice, then. Two levels of lying. You said you wouldn’t die, and you said the last thing you’d say to me wouldn’t be horrible. You did. It was.”

Waking You Up 6/21

When he stops talking, he realizes Lestrade is standing at the door to the ambulance, listening to him. Sherlock hadn’t noticed.


There’s a long moment of silence.

Then Lestrade asks, “What did he say?”

Sherlock doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t even consider not responding. “He’d been stabbed. I said it was my fault. He said probably.”

Lestrade looks at John. “It’s not your fault, Sherlock.”

It is. Sherlock knows it. Lestrade likely knows it as well; he’s just not the kind of person to say it.

“I want to take him home,” Sherlock says.

“You can’t,” Lestrade tells him gently. “He has to go to the morgue. We have to notify his family.”

Sherlock scowls. “He doesn’t have family. He has a sister who was too drunk to pick him up from the hospital the day he was discharged and thinks a phone and a few messages on his blog will fix things. I am his family.”

Lestrade reaches for him. “Sherlock-”

Sherlock pulls away. “It’s in his will. I’m to arrange everything.”

Lestrade nods. “Do you want help?”

“I can do it myself,” Sherlock snaps.

Lestrade flinches, just around the eyes, barely noticeable, but still there. He’s holding his hands in front of him, right hand gripping the wrist of his left, and the grip tightens briefly. Then he asks carefully, “Will you let me help?”

Sherlock sees him differently, then. He doesn’t see a man heaping pity on someone who doesn’t want it, who doesn’t think Sherlock can handle taking care of everything. He sees a man who wants to grieve but can’t right then, who wants to do what he can for a fallen comrade, who lost a friend and wants to help another.

He’d forgotten, that John was friends with most of the Yarders. He hadn’t known, that Lestrade considered Sherlock a friend as well.

“You and John were friends,” Sherlock says.

It’s not a question, but Lestrade responds immediately anyway. “Yes.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “Are we friends?”

It’s definitely a question this time, but Lestrade takes a minute to answer. “I like to think so.”

“Then yes. You can help.” Sherlock climbs out of the ambulance. “Do you need a statement?”

“I will eventually, yes,” Lestrade says.

Sherlock looks around, on either side of the street and down the alleyway. Donovan and Anderson are standing next to the killer’s body, watching the coroner work. Donovan’s eyes are red and puffy. She’d been crying. Anderson’s are, too. Not enough that anyone else would notice, but Sherlock does.

John calls them both by their first names, because they’ve asked him to. Sally. Dave. He goes to the pub with them sometimes, them and some of the other officers.

There are four more officers there. Two, a man and a woman, are standing close to each other, holding back tears. He recognizes them. John flirts with them. They call him doctor, soldier-boy, never his real name. It’s not serious, none of them mean anything by it. They all think it’s funny. The other woman is standing away from them, staring at nothing. She and John are nice to each other. John patched up her daughter when she fell in front of Scotland Yard, and is now her daughter’s doctor. When she flirts, it’s subtle, and she means it.

The last officer looks uncomfortable. He doesn’t know John, not beyond a vague knowledge of what he does. It’s likely just another body for this officer.

No. Wrong.

Called. Went. Flirted. Called. Wasn’t. Meant. Thought. Was. Were. Was. Flirted. Was. Meant. Didn’t. Did.

Past tense. John will never do anything of those things again.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade prompts gently.

“I want to go with him to the mortuary first,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade nods. “I’ll meet you there.”

Sherlock climbs back into the ambulance.

Waking You Up 7/21

Molly does the examinations. They don’t want her to, because of her connection to John, but she asks for it and they reluctantly agree.

Sherlock would suspect Mycroft, but – no, he does suspect Mycroft.

Sherlock watches. He tries to tell himself that it’s not John, that John’s gone, but when he looks at John’s body, John is all he sees. He finds himself wondering why John won’t just come back.

“Come back,” he whispers without realizing.

Molly doesn’t hear him.

Halfway through, she bursts into tears. When she hugs him, he doesn’t know what to do, so he stands there and lets her cry with her arms around him.

“It took you six months to remember his name,” Sherlock says.

She lets him go. “I remembered it eventually, though.” She wipes at her tears. “He used to bring me coffee. Whenever you sent him for some, he’d get me one, too. He said you never noticed, because the first time you asked him to go get you some while you two were here, he took seven minutes longer than he actually needed, and you thought that was just how long he took. Didn’t take him any longer to bring me some, so you wouldn’t know what he was up to. Did you?”

Sherlock stares at John. “No.”

Molly sighs, strokes a hand over John’s hair. “Guess that’s another reason why you notice him, like you never notice me. When you could still notice things, anyway.”

That seems like a strange thing to say, so Sherlock ignores it.

When Molly’s done, and John’s ready to be released to his family – to Sherlock – Molly turns to him.

“Do you want to say anything?” she asks.

Sherlock takes one of John’s hands, tangles their fingers together, then shoves it away. “No. He lied to me. I’m not talking to him until he apologizes.”

Waking You Up 8/21

It rains the day of John’s funeral. That isn’t surprising; it rains often in England, but Sherlock hates it. It feels cliché, as if it’s a scene cleverly planned in a film, and will cease to be important after the film ends. John deserves more.

Sherlock wound up being grateful for Lestrade’s help. Between the two of them, they managed to track down enough of John’s army friends and rugby mates to get the word out. There’s a lot of them there, more than Sherlock expected. With half of the Yard, a lot of John’s colleagues from the surgery, and some of the staff at Bart’s, the cemetery is crowded.

Some of the mourners are using umbrellas, and some are just letting the rain hit them. It looks like a film again. There should be a lover standing next to John’s casket, under the tarp and out of the rain, but obviously one of those too grief-stricken to use an umbrella, hair soaked and arranged artfully.

But there’s no lover there for John. Sarah’s there, of course, but they’d realized they were much better as friends awhile ago. John’s dated since, but no one serious. He says – said – that Sherlock’s taken up more of his time than a girlfriend or boyfriend ever could.

It’s open casket. Sherlock keeps coming back to look at John. He knows other people want a turn. He doesn’t care. John is – was – his.

He fixes John’s tie six times. On the seventh time, he notices a stain on John’s shirt that wasn’t there before. Sherlock touches it. His fingers come away red. He tastes it. Blood.

The stain is growing.

“Someone,” Sherlock says, but his voice is a croak. He clears his throat.

John sucks in a breath.

“Someone get over here! Quickly!” he calls.

John’s eyes open. Panic.

“I need a doctor!” Sherlock yells.

He gets fourteen. Twelve back away, letting the two best see to John. There’s shouting, crying, disbelief. Everything’s moving so quickly, they’re being rushed to the hospital, and John is holding his hand.

John gets hurried into surgery, and Sherlock has to wait. Normally he thinks while waiting, but he doesn’t want to think. John was dead. Both he and Molly examined the body. There are toxins that can induce a death-like state, but John couldn’t have taken one. And with modern machinery, it’s unlikely that John had vital signs too low to be detected but high enough to be alive, and there’s embalming to consider –

Sherlock cuts off. John hadn’t been embalmed. Sherlock hadn’t understood why, but maybe – maybe Moriarty slipped him toxin, maybe Mycroft knew, maybe, maybe –

There’s a doctor standing in front of him. “He’s awake,” she says.

Sherlock looks up. “Can I see him?”

“Follow me.” She leads Sherlock into a private room, then leaves.

John is sitting in the bed, smiling at him. He has his own eyes again.

“Sherlock,” John says.

Sherlock is frozen. “You died.”

“Apparently not.” He winces. “They still don’t know what happened.”

Sherlock listens to the heart monitor beeping, but it’s not enough. He takes John’s pulse again, three times, puts his hand over John’s heart to feel it beat, to feel his chest rise and fall.

John lets him, smiling patiently, and when he’s done, asks, “Satisfied?”

“No,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be satisfied again, not unless John is right next to him, always, and he can check any time he likes. “You can never leave my side again.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Never? That might make some things awkward.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock tells him. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen already.”

John sighs. “Suppose it won’t be much different from you bursting in on me whenever you feel like it, anyway. All right. You can follow me around, on one condition.”

Sherlock smiles, finally, finally feeling like everything might be all right again. “What condition?”

“You have to wake up,” John tells him.

Sherlock frowns. “That’s a ridiculous condition. I am awake.”

“Come on, Sherlock. You don’t want to make me a liar, do you?” John asks.

“What? You’re not making sense, John,” Sherlock says, beginning to feel alarmed.

“Please,” John says. “Wake up.”

Waking You Up 9/21

Sherlock does, and he’s alone, on the sofa in their flat, where he passed out the night before John’s funeral. The lingering feeling of happiness from the dream fades, making the despair worse than before. He stares at John’s empty armchair for a long time. Then he gets up, and goes to put on something black.

It’s not raining at John’s actual funeral. Sherlock hates it. He doesn’t feel as though the sun has a right to be out when they put John in the ground.

The people are the same as in Sherlock’s dream. Most likely because most of the people had been faceless then, and as far as Sherlock’s concerned, they’re faceless now. Sherlock doesn’t see Mycroft, but he knows he’s there. Somewhere.

Lestrade, a few army officers, give speeches.

Mrs. Hudson and Molly cry most of the funeral.

Sarah and Donovan try not to, but they dissolve into tears a few times as well.

Anderson cries once, when he thinks no one’s looking. He calls him Sherlock for the first time since they met.

Mike Stamford sobs, claps him hard on the shoulder.

Some of John’s rugby friends are drunk. They talk loudly about how only Johnny-boy could take out the man who killed him, all on his own.

People in uniform, desert camouflage, keep coming up to him and telling him how John saved their life, what John taught them, how John could shoot better than anyone.

A lot of people, in uniform and out, tell him they’re glad John found someone who made him so happy, even if only for a little while.

Everyone tells him how wonderful John was.

Harry slaps him. Yells at him, for taking over her brother’s life, for getting him killed, and now for taking over his death. She’s drunk, angry drunk, not commemorative. People Sherlock doesn’t know drag her away.

Sherlock says nothing, the whole time. He dislikes speeches. Crying makes him uncomfortable. He knows John was a hero. He didn’t make John as happy as these people seem to think. He knows that John was wonderful.

Harry is right.

Waking You Up 10/21

Sherlock is out walking when he sees him. He’s walked a lot, in the four days since John’s funeral. He can’t sleep, can’t focus enough to do anything. The flat just reminds him of John; he can’t stay there for long. So he walks. It’s work, anyway. Has to keep his mental map of London updated. He’s gotten behind on that.

He sees him in Soho, standing next to a bookshop.

“There you are,” John says, like Sherlock was the one who wandered off.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks him.

John shrugs, falling into step with him. “You were the one who decided it was a good day for a walk.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’re dead.”

John laughs. “You’re threatening me because I questioned your decision to go for a walk? Come on, we both know I can take you,” he teases.

Sherlock is offended. “You absolutely can’t. I’m smarter than you.”

“This is going to turn into a brains over brawn argument, isn’t it?” John asks, then grins. “It’s pointless, anyway. I only use my brawn for you.”

“You do not,” Sherlock says, though he can’t help feeling ridiculously pleased. “You use your brawn to help lots of people. And for – other things.”

“Most people would disagree with that disdainful look on your face when it comes to those ‘other things’ I do,” John replies.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “And most people would consider that a pick-up line.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Who says it wasn’t?”

Sherlock frowns at him. “You can’t hit on me. You’re dead.”

“You keep saying that and I’m going to get a complex,” John says. “Think you actually want me dead.”

Sherlock grabs his arm. “The last thing I ever want – wanted, was you dead.” He hesitates, then admits what he’s given no one else a clue to. “I think it might kill me too, John.”

John covers Sherlock’s hand with his own and squeezes, but he looks at him like he hasn’t heard what Sherlock’s said. “I got you something,” he says. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but-” He shrugs. “It’s dumb, but you might like it. I had to hide it at work, so you wouldn’t find it. Only Sarah knew where it was. I’ll let you have it, but you have to promise me something.”

Sherlock is suspicious. “What?”

“You have to wake up,” John says.

This feels familiar, but before Sherlock can figure out why, he jolts awake. He’s on the floor in the living room of their flat, where he must have passed out when his body gave up after too long with no sleep.

“It’s a dream,” Sherlock tells himself. “A stupid dream, just like the funeral. Dreams aren’t real.”

He makes it an hour and a half before he takes a cab to John’s work. Where John used to work.

Sarah’s in, and when he walks up to her, she looks at him in concern.

“Sherlock?” she asks, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “Do you need something?”

That’s a ridiculous question to ask. Of course he needs something. He needs John to be alive. But Sarah can’t do that, so her question is hollow, ringing with a false sense of friendship. She thinks because someone they both love is dead, they’ve bonded. They haven’t. She’s horrible, to want to use John’s death to bond.

That’s cruel, Sherlock knows, but John isn’t there to tell him not to think like that.

“John,” Sherlock starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. He can’t say that he dreamed of John, and dream-John said to come here. That’s ridiculous, sentimental. It’s something idiotic grieving lovers do, placing stock in meaningless dreams because they have nothing else to cling to.

Sherlock is only one of those things. He does, however, have nothing else, so he finds a way to phrase it. “John got something for me. He was hiding it here, you’re the only one that knows where it is.”

Sarah smiles, fond and sad. “He said you’d find it in two seconds if he kept it at your flat. He got it a few days before-” She stops, then stands up. “Come on. I’ll show you where I’ve kept it.”

He follows her numbly, his mind busy informing him that this was not possible. ‘Stop theorizing,’ he orders it. ‘We’re still collecting data. Remember, no matter how mad-’

Waking You Up 11/21

“Here it is,” Sarah says, stopping in front of a cupboard. She opens it and pulls out a medium-sized brown box. “Don’t know what it is, but he wanted you to have it.” She hands him the box, asks, “How’d you know? I didn’t think he’d gotten the chance to tell you.”

“He didn’t,” Sherlock says, running his hands over the cardboard.

“Figured it out, then?” she asks. “He was so sure you wouldn’t.”

He leaves without answering, because he can’t say anything to that when he’s too busy trying to get things to make sense.

Sherlock takes the box home without opening it, sets it on the coffee table and stares at it for a long time. When he finally does open it, his hands tremble slightly. Inside is a teddy bear. It’s a very light brown in colour, incredibly soft and fuzzy to the touch. Sherlock pulls it out, confused, though a small part of him notes that it seems perfect for hugging.

Then he sees the top of the bear’s head, and is instantly intrigued. The top is completely gone, as though someone has lifted it off. This reveals the bear’s brain, which, it turns out, is a replica of a human brain, so perfect, and so perfectly unique, that it must have been modelled after a real brain.

Sherlock spends twenty minutes examining every detail, and then turns his attention back to the box. There’s nothing else in there.

“I need more data,” he tells the bear, stroking a hand over the back of its head.

He lays back on the sofa, hugging the bear tightly to his chest.

“You found it, then,” John says.

Sherlock opens his eyes, and sees John sitting in his chair. “Yes.”

“Do you like it?” John asks, sounding hopeful.

Sherlock smiles at him. “Yes.”

John smiles back, the one that lights up his whole face. “Good. We’ll have to be careful with the claws. I didn’t even notice they were there until I handled it a little too roughly and snagged myself on one. Bit sharp, for a teddy bear. Then again, suppose that’s not your average teddy.”

“Where did you get it?” Sherlock asks.

“I found it in this little shop by a pub we were drinking at. Pete’d forgotten his girlfriend’s birthday was soon, so he dragged us in to look for something for her. I saw it, and apparently drunk me thought it would be a good idea to get it for you.” He laughs, glancing away. “I remember thinking that I knew how the bear felt. That’s how it feels to be me around you, sometimes, like you can cut open my skull and see into my brain just by looking at me.”

Sherlock looks uncertainly at the bear. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t mind it, you know,” John says. “No one else I’d rather be in my head but you. And even you don’t see everything.”

Sherlock runs his fingers over the folds in the bear’s brain. “I’d like to.”

“There’s another reason I bought it for you,” John says. “But it’s – even stupider. I’m not going to tell you it yet.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asks.

“You have to do something for me first,” John says.

Sherlock clutches the bear tighter, because he thinks he knows what’s coming. “No.”

“You have to wake up,” John tells him.

“John,” Sherlock pleads.

“Wake up,” John says.

Sherlock does, on the sofa, still holding the bear, and resists the urge to throw it in frustration. Instead, he takes a closer look at it, examining is paws carefully. There are indeed claws, buried in the fluff. They look strong, and when Sherlock presses his finger against one, he doesn’t have to push very hard to draw blood.

“Hidden danger,” Sherlock murmurs, then looks at the bear’s face. “Come on, John. We have a rugby player to find.”

He locates John’s friend Pete easily enough. He has John’s phone, and he texts all the Pete’s in John’s contacts to see if any of them played rugby with him. Only one did, and this Pete agrees to meet Sherlock in the park.

Waking You Up 12/21

Sherlock and John-bear are there within the hour. Pete shows up not too long after. He looks tired, eyes bloodshot, smells vaguely of alcohol. He’s been drinking.

Pete looks him over. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, right? Johnny’s partner.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, because he is, though not in the way Pete’s meaning.

Pete nods. “I saw you at the funeral.”

“I remember,” Sherlock says. Pete had been one of the ones who was drunk, but not offensively. Kept saying, “Johnny was the best mate a guy could have,” and “Doctor Johnny Watson: experience with women and men across three continents, took a bullet for England, out-drank everyone he met, avenged his own murder.”

Pete’d suggested putting that on John’s grave marker eleven times.

“Been meaning to call you,” Pete says. “Me and the boys. Take you out for a few drinks. The way Johnny talked about you. Said you were hell to deal with and you’d be the death of him one day-”

Sherlock flinches, very visibly, but Pete doesn’t even notice.

“But Christ, he thought the sun rose and set on you. Any idiot could see how much he loved you, even if he’d never tell us as much. You were the most important person in his life, you know? Seemed only fitting we at least meet you. Johnny would’ve liked it if we did right by you.”

Sherlock is starting to regret coming. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want John’s friends to “look after him,” because they miss John. Sherlock doesn’t know these people, and he doesn’t care. He’s only here to collect data on –

On whether or not John is speaking to him in his dreams? Lovely.

“I shouldn’t be using past tense with you, should I?” Pete asks. “Johnny – well, it’s not the best thing to do, is it?”

Sherlock considers telling him that, no, what’s not the best thing to do is tell your dead friend’s partner that your friend said they’d be the death of them the last time you spoke to them. Past tense, while uncomfortable, is appropriate.

But he doesn’t, because he was the death of John, and he deserves to hear things like that.

Instead, he holds up the bear. “Do you recognize this?”

Pete tugs on the sleeves of his jacket. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. You don’t even know me. How am I supposed to help? I’m just here for Johnny.”

Sherlock squeezes the bear in frustration. “Yes. I know. The bear?”

Pete laughs. “Christ, I can’t believe he actually gave you that. He was plastered when he bought it, you know. The rest of them mucked about, breaking crap they had to pay for and bitching to me about making them go in there. It was a weird shop, mate, couldn’t find anything for my girl, but Johnny found that and said he had to get it for you. Spent most of the money he won off Mark in that drinking contest on it.”

Sherlock stares at the bear. Dreams are not real. And yet – yet – He hadn’t known any of the things John had told him, and they’ve all been true. He can’t see another explanation, and he doesn’t know if that’s because there isn’t one or because he doesn’t want there to be one.

It terrifies him.

Pete leaves at some point, muttering something about keeping in touch, but Sherlock isn’t paying attention.

Somehow, he gets home again. Collapses on the sofa, wills sleep to come. But it won’t. He keeps going over everything, everything, the bear, the claws, the shop, Pete. The chase, the alleyway, the knife. John said wait. Sherlock said no.

The one person that’d meant – everything, John’d meant everything – taken away, and it’s Sherlock’s fault.

“My fault,” Sherlock says aloud.

John-bear’s claws dig into his arm, and he sits up.

“You’re right,” he tells it. “This isn’t working. New strategy.”

He gets up, carrying John-bear with him, and goes to the kitchen. Under the floorboard, behind the fridge, there it is. Morphine. He doesn’t normally take it – makes him sluggish, the opposite of what he wants when he’s bored – but he keeps some on hand for experiments.

It’s perfect for what he needs right now. It’ll slow his thoughts down, let his body take over and get what it needs, and it’s sleep-starved, it’ll –

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Re: Waking You Up 11/21

mindfuck. saw it coming. clever, cruel you.

Re: Waking You Up 10/21

"you're dead." you're brilliant. more than so, actually. too clever.

cruel promise. again.
saying you're brilliant doesn't sound believable anymore. damn it.

i should stop writing comment while i'm still reading. but heck.
this chapter. you're brilliant, brilliant and cruel, clever monster.

Re: Waking You Up 9/21

"how John could shoot better than anyone." this line doesn't show how brilliant you are, sorry. even when you are. it has a personal meaning to me and if my father didn't call me, i don't want to know how long i'd keep crying for.
why am i telling you this again?

Re: Waking You Up 8/21

checks his tie. seven times. you're brilliant.
cruel condition.

Re: Waking You Up 7/21

seven minutes. you're brilliant.

Re: Waking You Up 6/21

the line made of past tenses. you're brilliant.

Waking You Up - Cleaned and Reposted

Just wanted to let those who expressed interest know that I've had this beta-ed and have it posted in my journal here!

And thank you all so much for the lovely comments!

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