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If you remember me. Part 3 and end.Category: Fanfic
Thursday, 7 June 2012
04:23:56 PM (GMT)
(Not feeling quite so angsty this time, but I'm really in the mood for continuing

Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry
You don't know how lovely you are
I had to find you, tell you I need you
Tell you I set you apart
Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions
Oh let's go back to the start
Running in circles, coming up tails
Heads on a science apart

Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh, take me back to the start.

I was just guessing at numbers and figures
Pulling the puzzles apart
Questions of science, science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart
And tell me you love me, come back and haunt me
Oh and I rush to the start
Running in circles, chasing our tails
Coming back as we are

Nobody said it was easy
Oh it's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be so hard
I'm going back to the start

Sherlock stayed by his friend's side for weeks, declining any offer of food, only
sleeping while John was at therapy.  He'd turned his phone off long ago.  He didn't
wish to be disrupted by cases.  They weren't important.  They didn't give as much of
a thrill as John saying that he remembered something.
Their friendship was returning slowly, but Sherlock knew, Sherlock always knew, that
John didn't trust him.  Who would?  They'd known eachother for about a year now, and
they were flatmates, but nothing other than friends.  Who would believe that? 
Mycroft didn't.  John was a sensible man, not one to make rash decisions.  He didn't
believe Sherlock.  He humoured him.

His smiles were broken.  Not quite whole.  Just like him.  The memories he had forged
with John were now one-sided, and none of them mattered if John didn't know it.  But
the Doctor tried.  He smiled and laughed, and nodded when Sherlock told him stories. 
Said that his blogs 'rang bells', but his lies were pointless.  Clearly he had
forgotten just how well the detective knew him.
Molly had walked in once to visit.  John was sleeping, but Sherlock was there, just
as he always was.  His forehead was rested on his knees that were drawn up to his
chest, and he was shaking.  The pathologist stood for a moment, utterly stunned at
seeing the usually cold, detatched man whom she knew reduced to such a being.  She
sat next to him, murmuring words of consolation and making the situation horribly
awkward, and yet, even Sherlock didn't have the motivation to tell her to stop
She, in turn, left too, and more visitors came and went.  John's family included.  He
shouted at them, telling them to leave him alone, that he didn't know who they were,
and yet all the while, Sherlock sat by his side, semi-visible.  Trusted for reasons
neither of them knew.  Such a man.  Would John really grow to tolerate him again? 
Had he even tolerated him before?  The gun-shots, the violin, the impossible
requests...  Who could live with such a person?
And yet John had.  Would he once more?  At the moment, the doctor smiled at Sherlock,
made jokes, was friendly.  But he was like that to his family, too, until he screamed
at them to leave.  Would Sherlock's time come too?  To be shunned as some fake?  Was
the empty, broken man at his side too hopeful to see the truth?


Words echoed through Sherlock's mind as he stared at the blank white walls, and his
mind drew them out.  He could see entire conversations written over the walls and
windows.  Some were memories.  Some were words that he wished he could say.
Something Molly had said, "You look sad.  When you think he can't see you."
Back then, he had looked up from his microscope at his best friend, and assumed that
she had meant the literal sense.  Even if she had, Sherlock saw things differently
now.  John couldn't see him the way that he could see John.  John's vision started
from weeks ago.  There was nothing before that.  He saw universes compared to John. 
The words finally seemed to make sense, and they changed somehow on the wall.  Bigger
now.  More significant.
Sherlock's bones were stiff, and his elbow cracked painfully as he reached sideways
for the notepad and pen on the table.  He held the objects unfamiliarly- John was
always the one to do the writing.  He frowned, wondering how he could put this into
words, but the fountain pen had already started scrawling across the page in
elaborate spidery writing.
"This is my note.  It's what people do, isn't it?  Leave a note?
John.  I told you once that heroes didn't exist.  Well, I was wrong.  You exist.
I will only ask one thing of you.  One thing only.

If you remember sometime.  If you ever remember me.
Don't forget.

You're my best friend.
Still the only one in the world.


He stood up, folding the note and pressing it to the sleeping John's hands.  He
ached, and he stomach was hurting from being denied food for so long.  He didn't
care.  The skeleton of a man walked to the window, and onto the balcony.  He stood
facing the hospital ward, and looked at his friend.  I want you to be the last
thing I see.  He swallowed, his feet shuffling backwards until the small of his
back hit against the metal railing.
He may have been wrong, but in the last few moments he had before loosing sight of
him forever, he could have sworn that John woke up.   He reached his right hand out
to him, wanting to stay, but knowing that it would always be a half life without the
John he remembered.  The John that remembered.  The John that loved him back.

"Goodbye, John."

‹mÿlö xÿlötö› says:   7 June 2012   829905  
FUUUUCK ;____________;
‹defineMANIAC› says :   7 June 2012   652043  
"When you love someone and it goes to waste.
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home.
And ignight your bones.
And I will try
To fix you" 


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