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Back in London, a lot of people hated the rain. They complained that it was cold, wet, and turned everything grey. I was different, I always loved the rain. I thought it brought life to everything. Now, the closest I have to the rain are tears.
“Really, you're back again? What's that, twice this week? It's like you're trying to set a record.”
Sherlock fidgeted a bit at the poke of a needle in his skin. He should be used to it, but he really didn't like needles anymore.
“It's just a little cut, I hardly see why they panicked so much.” Sherlock grumbled.
“Might I remind you that your little cut needed stitches?” the doctor said, shaking his head a bit. Sherlock was in the clinic a lot, and it was always John that tended to him. There was something strange about John Watson, something beyond the plain facade he put up that Sherlock couldn't see. It was vaguely interesting, but it was of no consequence.
“It would've been fine.” Sherlock said, looking out of the window. His body was littered with scars from accidents in the laboratory. The other scientists called him clumsy. He didn't care.
“You know it wouldn't have. I need to take out the stitches from last week too, so could you turn over?” John said with an obvious sigh.
Sherlock complied, rolling onto his stomach. The last stitches were on his back, which had made sleeping an unpleasant experience. He felt cold hands probing the area around the injury, and he closed his eyes. John was always unnecessarily gentle with him, and he was one of the only people Sherlock really talked to. For the most part, Sherlock kept to himself, but John was kind at the very least.
Sherlock felt he could like John, but he kept that to himself.
Later that day, Sherlock was outside for a break. He was never sure if he preferred working or being on break. He abhorred the work he did, but when he had nothing to do, he always craved nicotine. There were no cigarettes anymore, and tobacco was considered a waste of space to grow. He always craved what he couldn't have.
“Hey Sherlock. You on break?”
Sherlock turned from where he was leaning against a tree to find John. Sherlock simply nodded, unsure of what else he could say.
“Mind if I sit with you? I'm also on break.” John said cheerfully. Sherlock winced at the obvious statement.
“Go ahead.”
John sat next to him on the island of lustrous grass, opening up a small bag.
“You want any food?” John asked, holding up the bag and glancing up at Sherlock.
“Not hungry.” Sherlock said, desperately wishing for a drag of a cigarette.
“Alright.” John said, looking at the distorted sky. “Looks like it's raining. I guess the rotation will be canceled.”
The rotation was the schedule of when citizens were made to go outside in the protective suits. The heads of the community claimed it was to give the citizens a break from the dome, but Sherlock knew what it was. It was to give the citizens a taste of what's outside, of the hell that wait outside their safe homes, and dissuade anyone from wanting to leave. Sherlock had started refusing to go on rotation 3 years ago. They'd stopped trying to force him.
“Mmm.” Sherlock grunted noncommittally, ears straining for the once familiar sound of the rain.
“So, how's research going?”
“As good as it ever is.”
“That's good. God, I can't wait until we can go outside without masks or bulky suits again. I miss the fresh air.” John said, scrunching his face up, looking as if he regretted saying it. “What I mean is, it'd be nice. Not that the dome is bad or anything.”
Sherlock stared at John incredulously. He didn't even realize the ridiculousness of what he'd said.
“You can't wait?”
“Er, I didn't mean it like that. I like it inside the dome.” John said, looking uncomfortable, changing the subject. “Anyways, everyone really respects you guys. The scientists are what will cure us after all.”
“Cure?” Sherlock parroted back to John. He truly didn't understand. He didn't know the position they were in, the hopelessness that had consumed everyone who did understand. A wave of emotion hit him, and he could barely stand. Sherlock felt the strange urge to laugh, hysterical giggles bubbling up in his throat. He did the only thing he could. He ran.
John's eyes widened as Sherlock nearly doubled over against the glossy bark, giggling softly. Jumping up to try and help him, he was nearly knocked over as Sherlock rushed away from him, running as fast as he could.
John was left, mouth gaping open as Sherlock took off toward the south gate. Still, there was something wrong with Sherlock, and he had to go after him. He was a patient after all. Privately, John thought Sherlock might be more than just a patient, edging closer to someone he care about, but he was sure Sherlock didn't share the sentiment.
Walking as fast as he could without outright running, John made his way to the south gate, feet pounding on the shiny asphalt. He went over that moment in his head, wondering if he'd somehow triggered Sherlock. Sherlock was rather strange, and he seemed so reserved, and it was disconcerting to see him like that.
Reaching the gate, walking past the last polished house, he flashed his ID at the soldier manning it.
“Did anyone else go through this gate?”
“Yeah, one of those scientists. It was weird, since he took a breathing mask but no protective suit. He claimed that he had his own method of protection that worked better. I guess the researchers developed some new tech.”
“Shit.” John swore. He knew there was no new tech. What was Sherlock doing now? “I'll need a suit, fast as you can.”
The soldier, nodded, a bit confused but still following through with the request. John assembled the bulky suit as quickly as he could, running out of the gate once he was done.
“Sherlock?” he called as he looked around. He could make out a shape through the downpour and headed towards it.
“Sherlock! Christ, you have to get back inside!” John cried as he approached Sherlock. Sherlock didn't turn around.
“You said we'll find the cure. You're wrong.” John could hear Sherlock say.
“Sherlock, please, we can talk inside.” John pleaded. He could see welts in Sherlock's pale skin forming as the toxic water ran over it.
“Do you know how long we've been slaving without finding even one cure? I've let everything go, and still nothing. There's no magical 'cure.' It doesn't exist.”
“Please Sherlock! I would carry you if I could, but I can't, so please just come back with me!” John pleaded, eyes transfixed on the blistering on Sherlock's skin.
“This is the first time I've felt the rain in 13 years. I loved the rain.”
“What can I do to make you come back inside?”
“There's nothing for me. There never was. Don't you see? There was only false hope.”
“Sherlock!” John choked out, wanting to scream as a spot on Sherlock's arm began to blacken.
“Hope has infected us, John.” Sherlock yelled, whirling around to face John. “We don't acknowledge that this world is done John, we blithely ignore it. But look at us!”
Sherlock threw his arms out, eyes wide and a hysterical smile splitting his face.
“Look at us, here in Calypso!”
Calypso
“Don't you see it John? No matter how much we deny that this world has taken it's last breath.”
Apocalypse
“This whole time, we've only been 3 letters away from the apocalypse.”
Calypso
+p +e +a
Apocalypse
John's eyes widened. He'd always thought of the name Calypso as a sort of badge, a symbol for the fight of the last humans against the stagnation of the world that we caused. Had it always been so hopeless?
“No.” John said, fists clenched as Sherlock's mania faded a bit. “No, I won't accept that. We're still alive dammit! We do all of this because we believe in a future, one we can share with the people we love! Don't you?”
Sherlock chuckled, his laughter soft and broken rather than hysterical now. “No. I told you, I gave everything up. Not that I had much to begin with.”
“Sherlock...” John whispered as his anger faded. Sherlock's skin was mottled black and red, even though his face showed no pain. John stepped forward until he and Sherlock were close.
Not sure exactly what he was doing, he raised the face guard on the suit and carefully pressed his lips to Sherlock's, closing his eyes as he felt his lips burning. Sherlock's lips were blistered and burnt, and they tasted of rain and acid, but he didn't break away.
“It doesn't have to be that way. Please come back with me.” he breathed against his mouth.
Sherlock nodded, his eyes bright against the bleak greyness that surrounded them. He looked shocked, but more than that he looked beaten down, a man who'd forgotten how to live. John dug in one of the pouches for a tarp, which he threw over Sherlock. It wasn't much, but it would help.
Leading Sherlock back to the gate, he wondered how Sherlock must've felt, with no reason to hope. All he'd wanted was to feel the rain against his skin one last time.