ANTAGONISH
"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)
"Sherlock? Oh, God - Sherlock!" John cradled his friend closer, rocking him into a better position where he could check him for wounds ... for anything he could do to help alleviate his pain ...?
He couldn't make out was cause of Sherlock's distress, but the man was fading into unconsciousness.
"Just ... hold on, Sherlock!" John commanded hauling Sherlock up into his arms.
Despite Sherlock's thin stature, he had been almost pure muscle before, but now ... John didn't want to think about how Sherlock could have lost this much weight in the time he had been away?
He was real. He was here. That was all that mattered.
John found the strength to carry whatever weight Sherlock had, gladly.
.
Upstairs, he tucked Sherlock into a bed that lay fitted and ready for use as if he had never left it ... and then stared at the sight in wonder.
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was home.
John felt Sherlock shift and those crystal blue eyes blinked open for a moment. He could see Sherlock fought against the sleep that desperately wanted to overtake him.
How tired was he ... ?
John shushed him and managed to settle him back down. Watching as his friend's demeanor relaxed. His eyes closed, and his breathing evened out ...
Seconds passed. Minutes.
Maybe hours.
When John felt Sherlock's hand reach out in his sleep ... and grasp for his hand.
"... John, I ..."
The baritone voice poured into John's veins. Hot liquid. More valuable than blood. More heady than pure oxygen. Speeding up his heart rate again ...
"... I heard you," Sherlock sighed with relief, "I heard you ..."
.
John sighed too.
. Sherlock was dreaming.
This time ... John knew he wasn't the only one wishing for an empty grave. A successful magic trick.
They were both experiencing a miracle.
John gripped Sherlock's hand firmly, caressing the knuckles as he watched his miracle ...
. Sleep.
.
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