Title: Come Morning Light
Summary: He doesn’t realize that his hand is shaking until John weakly puts his fingers around it. His human smiles weakly, “Sher…lock… it’s time… to let… me go…”
Notes: for hiddengrotto, who requested the word prompt “Hush - my muse trying to calm and quiet yours” for Johnlock. I hope you like it! The title is from the song “Safe and Sound” by Taylor Swift and the Civil Wars.
Warning: Sort of character death, loosely inspired by Kuroshitsuji (or Black Butler in English)
"Shhh, please, John, don’t say another word. Everything is going to be fine, completely fine. We still have to catch the second murderer. I know you won’t let a silly little bullet take you away," Sherlock says with a lull in his deep voice, the one that he knows makes John weak in the knees.
They are in a dark alley that is filled with the putrid stench of rotting rubbish and now, the metallic and delicious (disgusting) blood. Five bodies are there, only two are alive. Well, one, if you reconsider your definition of ‘alive’ and barely so.
John’s breathing quickens, his pupils are dilated and he seems feverish. His little human has never looked more frail and breakable than he does now. Sherlock cradles him closer, whispering soft things, trying desperately to reverse the damage. He’s protected this man before and he’ll be damned (but isn’t he already?) if John dies now!
He doesn’t realize that his hand is shaking until John weakly puts his fingers around it. His human smiles weakly, “Sher…lock… it’s time… to let… me go…”
"No!" Sherlock snarls and he doesn’t even bother holding up his illusions. "You’re mine. You can’t, I—"
"…It’s alright… I know… what you are…" comes the shallow gasps.
Sherlock hastily puts his illusions back up, trying to cover the red eyes, the fangs, the horrid skin and scales. He can’t let John see him like this, no, no…
"…Please, leave it… it’s… I like it… it’s you,” John smiles.
Sherlock starts to shake his head, “No, it’s not. I’ve been lying to you. I’m not human and now you’re dying and you’re busy comforting me? Stupid human, you should rest. The ambulance will be here soon. I will not let you die!”
His human tries to chuckle, but all that emerges is a slight gurgling of blood, streams of it trailing down his lips and chin. Sherlock hisses at him but John says, “… it’s not Afghanistan… can’t save me now…”
And wasn’t that risky of him? Finding such a delectable soul, filled with pain and suffering and still so strong. It’s strength was enough for Sherlock to try and prolong the soul’s life, in the hopes that the soul would go through more suffering (have more spices to its flavour) and still remain stubbornly delectable.
"How…?" Sherlock wonders, but it doesn’t matter how John knows. "I can do it again," he insists. All it would take is another piece of his horns, another depletion of power. He’d need John’s words, a ‘yes.’
(And isn’t it ironic, that John asked God to let him live and yet a demon answered him?
"Do you truly wish this?" Sherlock had asked with bated breath, as this opportunity.
Delirious, remembering nothing (but is that true now?) John had said ‘yes.’
And with that answer, Sherlock had all the power he needed to test this soul.)
Then Sherlock would have to battle another reaper (it had taken months to recover. He had had to live as a mortal with no magic until Moriarty challenged him.) But it would be worth it for a few more years with John’s (barely breaths to Sherlock, why do humans live such fleeting lives?)
More blood dribbles out as John shakes his head, “…No… I don’t… I don’t want you… to… It’s time. You can… have my… soul if you want…”
Sherlock nearly jumps back in shock because of John’s idiocy and because… he doesn’t want it, not anymore. Not to eat. John’s soul is never to be devoured. Sherlock wants to spend forever with it. John’s soul isn’t something that is meant to disappear in one careless meal. He’s not worthy of it, of this taste.
"Don’t," says Sherlock, "I don’t—"
"Take it," John closes his eyes, "…it’s yours…"
That is when his heart stops.
Sherlock watches with horror as a bright white light comes out from John’s chest, only visible to angels and demons like himself. It is bright as a star and gathers into a little orb, like the most ethereal jewel crafted from the light of the moon and it hovers above Sherlock’s hand, waiting.
"…John…” he whispers helplessly.
It’ll be alright, he thinks the soul says. It’ll be alright.
And centuries from now, they will tell stories, of a demon who eats nothing, only breathes in the essence of misery from the streets. A demon who solves human crimes and smiles at no one but the star he keeps in his pocket, close to his chest, a star that talks back.