~~a song!fic and AU

*trigger warning~~

I found God on the corner of First and Armistad.

Where the west was all but won.

All alone smoking his last cigarette.

I said, "Where you been?"

He said, "Ask anything."

As a very persistent man, John Watson never gave up. When he was in the war and if that unlucky situation arose where a fellow soldier would flatline, John Watson never gave up. Even if somehow the moon collided with the Earth, John Watson would never, ever give up.

But everyone comes to a downfall.

John Watson found his in God. Actually...God would be an understatement. This God John came to know was ten times more divine than any God could ever be. With his ebony curls that shone if the sunlight hit them just oh-so-right, with his pure alabaster skin that had those little birthmarks--those little flaws--under all of those clothes he wore, with his cheekbones that were so sharp, John Watson was afraid he would cut himself if he ever touched them.

So this "God" John Watson came to know was his downfall. This beautiful, divine, foreign creature was his destruction.

It had been raining the day they met. No, it wasn't the small sprinkles of hope that leaves the tiniest stains of existence on your shirt. It was a torrential downpour. No one was walking on the cobblestone streets of London except John Watson and God.

John had just made it to the corner of First and Armistad when he spotted the breath of smoke drifting up, up, and away into the charcoal grey sky. He turned, and there he was. Majestic, wonderful, alluring.

"You wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes on you, would you?"

It took John just a mere second to figure out that this man was talking to him. He stumbled forward a bit, trying to find words. "N-No."

"Pity," the man sighs. "This is my last one," he adds, referring to the one he held in his nimble fingers. The very tip of it burned a bright orange, flickering, as he moved it in and out between his pale pink lips, like the waves of a tide. John Watson was already mesmerized.

"There's a shop down the block," the blonde man says.

"Have you seen the sky lately?" God tilts his head up slightly, like he's going to catch a raindrop on his tongue.

"It's raining."

"That's an understatement."

"It's pouring."

"Ah. But that is a hyperbole."

John laughs. "Who are you?"

The man looks over, his bright eyes ripped from the universe itself. They twinkle with mischief; they flicker with joy; they meet with storm clouds.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Jesus, even his name is perfect, John thinks. "I'm John Watson." He sticks out a hand, but Sherlock does not take it. He doesn't even glance at it.

"Well, John. Care for a drink?"

"I..."

"We've only just met, I know, but do you care for a drink?"

"Where have you been?" John murmurs under his breath.

"Ask anything, John Watson."

That was the day they met. It had been raining.

Where were you

When everything was falling apart?

All my days

Were spent by the telepone

That never rang,

And all I needed was a call

That never came

To the corner of First and Armistad.

It had been raining the day he left. Not the torrential downpour that caused everyone to stay inside; it was the tiny sprinkles of hope that John Watson would never see stained on his clothes again.

I'll call. I promise. Those were the only four words God left on a note in John Watson's kitchen. I'll call. I promise. There was no number; there was no signature. Just four words that John held on to for dear life.

And he never gave up.

________________________________________

"John!" Sherlock pranced into the living room, planting a kiss on the top of his lover's head.

"Mmhm?"

"We have to go! Before the rain stops." Sherlock tugged on John's jumper, urging him to stand and go with him.

"No," John grunted.

"John Hamish Watson. Get up or...or..." Sherlock stops, racking his mind for a good excuse, "or there will be no more kisses for you. Ever."

John's eyes whipped open, and Sherlock smirked that smirk he knew John loved to kiss, loved to make disappear into an open mouth set in an O of ecstasy.

"Then let's go, you prick."

They went outside and danced in the lovely rain. They danced in the slick, dark streets like two teenagers who had just taken that mighty fall into love. They danced like they were young, and free, and wild again. They danced.

________________________________________

Lost and insecure,

You found me, you found me.

Lyin' on the floor,

Surrounded, surrounded.

Why'd you have to wait?

Where were you? Where were you?

Just a little late..

You found me, you found me.

Sherlock called a month later. John wasn't there to hear the incessant ringing. He was lying on the bathroom floor, beaten by his own heart. It was another three hours before Sherlock sprinted through the door of 221B Baker Street, frantically searching for the only one he ever had called his.

He found him in lying there on the bathroom floor. He found him right when he was just about to jump off the cliff of never giving up. And hanging by just a small pebble, Sherlock Holmes dragged John Watson up again.

"Sherrrrlock?" John slurred. He had drank far too many glasses of whiskey.

"I'm here, John. I'm here."

John's fingers clamored up to reach the buttons of Sherlock's violet shirt, undoing the first, and the second, and the third, the fourth, the fifth.

Stop.

Stop. Stop.

Stop.

"Stop," Sherlock was mumbling, enveloping those fingers in his ivory hands. Only then, when their fingers were intertwined, could you see the differences between them. There were too many to count.

In the end

Everyone ends up alone.

Losing her

The only one who's ever known

Who I am

Who I'm not

Who I wanna be.

No way to know

How long she will be next to me.

"You left. You left the last time," John says.

"I know."

"I gave up."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I know."

"Stop being a smart-ass."

"Okay," Sherlock grins, and so does John.

"Just okay? That's all I get?"

"Yes because everything's okay now. You're okay. I'm okay. We're okay."

Will we always be okay? John thought, but didn't dare to speak aloud, afraid he might jinx it. He had never been one to believe in supernatural happenings, but God came along. This God. His God.

John took both of those cheekbones in his hands (they were soft, not sharp), and he kissed God.

He smelled like mint. He tasted like honey. He felt like fireworks.

If you've ever had the great experience to go on a roller coaster--not one of the baby ones, one of the enormous, taunting ones--, then you know that rush of adrenanline you get when you're right at the peak of falling. And then you fall. And it's amazing.

John always felt that rush of adrenanline when he kissed Sherlock. It wasn't because of the things he did with his tongue, or his teeth, or those damn lips (although those were brilliant, too). No. John felt that thrill because...because Sherlock never showed love. Except when he kissed John.

John could just feel the adoration oozing from Sherlock's mouth that was now suckling gently at his neck, very surely leaving a mark that John was his. John was Sherlock's. Sherlock was John's. It was a simple math equation.

"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" John whispers, lips brushing past the very tip of Sherlock's ear before he bites it.

"Show me," Sherlock growls into his shoulder. The one that has the hideous scar etched on it. Sherlock loved that scar. If he had to pick his favorite thing about John, that would be it. Sure, the distressed, yellow flesh wasn't very appealing, but Sherlock loved what it meant. John had gotten that memory from never giving up. And thank God he hadn't given up on Sherlock completely. Thank God.

John hums into Sherlock's earlobe before standing and dragging him to the bedroom. And that night, it poured. It poured down rain like London had never seen before. Behind closed doors and closed curtains in 221B, John and Sherlock loved. They loved like both of them had never felt before.

In the morning...God was gone.

Early morning; the city breaks.

I've been callin' for years and years and years and years,

And you never left me no messages.

You never sent me no letters.

You got some kind of nerve, taking all I want.

Years passed. Five years, to be exact. John counted each and every day, marking them off with a red X on the calendar. Every day one of those X's would appear, John slowly crawled back to the cliff. He held on for as long as he could. He held on for five years.

Mrs. Hudson found him in their bedroom, under a bundle of sheets, alone...and cold. The breath catching in her throat, she called 999, and they came and collected the body.

Three months later, Sherlock came back around. He hadn't heard the news. It hadn't even been big news really. An ex-army doctor had committed suicide. Who would care about that?

Only God. Only God would care. John's God. John's Sherlock.

He found the note tucked into the pillow sheet. The police had been too daft to look there. It had four words on it, just like the note Sherlock had left so, so long ago.

Just a little late.

Why'd you have to wait?

To find me.

To find me.

~~i'm crying. is anyone else crying? vote, comment. don't fangirl, just cry. dedicated to Karissa221B--but Watty won't let me do it bc it's a butt--who requested this oneshot based off this beautiful song by The Fray. (and her comments are pretty fricking nice too). probably didn't expect it to be so sad. sorry. i love you, you darling readers. *throws tissues everywhere*~~