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He can’t focus- too many thoughts and lies and theories and she’s talking about chips about chips and he feels shame that he could ever have doubted Sherlock; she was real, whoever she is, oh God, Sherlock, Sherlock-
And then she’s saying a word that feels strange to his ears- You’re-Us, You’re-Us, what? And then he remembers mythology books he’d read: Eurus, Greek, East Wind. He thinks back to Janus, the God with two faces, and wonders if there’s ever such a thing as a coincidence-
No, quick, double back, think. The East Wind? Sherlock’s voice, Sherlock’s voice when he was leaving, he hears the plane engine roaring, no no, Sherlock never left, it’s okay, it’s not okay; it is what it is: The East Wind is coming, Sherlock.
A rubbish big brother. Mycroft. Mycroft is lying. Lying. Liar-
“He’s making a funny face.”
Funny how? That funny face on the wallpaper, Sherlock shot because he was bored, Sherlock, please, I need to tell you- there’s something you need to know-
“I think I’ll put a hole in it.”
A myth that time freezes, he doesn’t have any- there’s a jolt and that pain, that familiar pain, he’s been here before, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know if he can hold on, he has no-one, and he’s lying down, he can’t stop lying down-
Drifting. Films and clowns and bombs and a ship? Pirates? It doesn’t make sense, but what does that matter, it’s better, this way, it’s-
Pain. Can’t. Can’t do it, have to- must- shut down-
Something. Something from above. “John? John, can you hear me? Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh-”
Doesn’t he understand? It’s too late, it’s too late, now, he’s in the plane, he’s going to crash-
Hope? There’s no hope. Should tell someone. Let someone know. The stuff he wanted to say… too late, too late.
Someone, someone crying: “I- I need to tell, need to tell his-his sister. No, I’m family, I am family, you don’t understand, I have to stay, I prom-”
Sister? Always something. Why does that sound funny? Harry. Yes. Tell my sister I’m here.
The Someone is back: “Please, please, please, John, you’re not gone, I know you’re not gone, let me find you, let me save you-”
Drifting back. Water. If he drowns, he can’t feel anything. Save my soul, seek my room-
A voice beginning to splinter, shaking- “Oh, hello. Are you-”
It speeds up. More pain. What they could become, he’s wanted, he aches for it, a future, but he’s lost, he’s lost-
“I know you’re in there, John Hamish Watson, and you, you l-listen to me right now, no excuses. Now you fight, you fight your way back, do you understand, you fight like the soldier you are because I-I can’t- I can’t do this alone-oh my God-”
There’s light. Light at the top of the well. But… but he was never in the well, was he?
“John? Oh, John, that’s it, that’s it, open your eyes-”
Everything is white- and then it isn’t. Sherlock’s face above him. Tears falling onto his cheeks. Familiar… but why…
Sherlock gasps out a choked laugh, and there’s an attempt at a smile, and then he’s suddenly sobbing: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
The world rights itself.