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Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
-William Butler Yeats
He came to me as an angel in the night. I could have sworn he was, never mind that he lacked the feathery wings we’ve come to associate with beings like him. There was a light shining around him—no, shining through him as if he were light incarnate. He wore black clothes that contrasted with his skin that was paler than cream. Dark curls bobbed around his head with each step he took. And his eyes, his pale blue-gray-green eyes fixed on me and I thought I could live forever and die contented just looking at his eyes.
He stopped by my bed, his gaze tracing me from head to toe. It remained a little longer on my left shoulder and I felt that he knew my injury, knew the aching mass of muscle that had been sewn together as best as could be in the makeshift hospital. I shifted closer to the edge, wanting to make some contact. His hand was so close to mine. I could close that distance instantly.
He looked at me, our gazes meeting. I asked him who he was. He told me a fantastic story about beings who could grant wishes, a fairy tale surely. His voice had dipped to a lower pitch, stirring something within me. I don’t know what it was. Or rather I did know what it was but I refused to contemplate it
Maybe it was the husky quality his voice had taken on. Maybe it was his intense stare that brooked no doubt or argument. I don’t know. I felt that I could open up to him, leave him to his devices and I’ll be the better for it.
But a greater part of me refused to be taken in. War had made me a cynic. How many times had I wished for something to happen while I was looking after patients or while I was on the battlefield? How many times had I been harshly reminded that wishes were merely meant to be made but never really granted?
Yet the other part of me was drawn in, enticed by the promise that I could have everything I could wish for. A voice in my head told me I had nothing to lose. If he never lived up to his claims, it was all right as I never did believe in him so much. But if he did what he said he could, then I would have gained something, far more than I could have hoped for. So, despite my initial cynicism, I told him what I wanted.
And he smiled at me.
***
“You shot him.”
“Well, I had too.”
He looked down at him, his gaze demanding an explanation. I have to admit, I have never been able to say no when he looks at me like that. Not now, not ever.
So I said: “Both of you were about to kill you, he with his persuasiveness and you with your curiosity.” I winced at the bad construction of that sentence. “Couldn’t let that happen.”
His gaze softened, telling me that he understood. “Thank you, John.”
“Sometimes though, I wish you would take more care. You can’t keep running towards everything dangerous. A little more caution, all right?”
“Why?”
His question was abrupt. I hadn’t expected him to ask that. All the while, ever since that first dinner at Angelo’s, I had thought that it would have been obvious to the world’s most observant man. With all his talents, he should have known the answer to that question by now.
“Just take more care, Sherlock.” I replied, turning my back to him.
I walked briskly away from the crime scene, wondering what he would have replied if I had stayed.
***
“You know, Sherlock, you’ve never told me how this arrangement works.”
“What arrangement?” He answered while chewing a Danish pastry. “And you’ve never asked.”
“The wish granting.”
“Ah.”
He settled into his favorite chair and drew his knees up. “Didn’t I explain it well enough for you in Afghanistan? And you didn’t seem to worry about it the past months.”
I shrugged, “I don’t quite remember most of what you said back then. It must have been the drugs. And any case, I just wanted to be clear on the matter.”
He huffed as if he had taken personal offense at my drug induced amnesia. “Very well but I’m not repeating myself.” He glared at me to emphasize the point. When I nodded, he continued. “I’m a creature of free will and I have the ability to grant wishes.”
I held up a hand. “Hold on. If you’re a creature of free will that begs the question of why you chose me to be your master and to grant my wishes?”
“Don’t be daft, John!” He exclaimed, “No one is my master. I chose you for entirely different reasons than what fairy tales would have you believe. Why would any rational creature of free will wish to be mastered?”
“Good point.”
“Disabuse yourself of the notion that I’m the genie of Hollywood and children’s books. I am nothing so insipid.”
“All right. All right.” I said apologetically. “You didn’t have to get wound up over a misunderstanding on my part. That’s why I’m asking you to explain, right?”
He pouted and looked away but I could tell that the sudden burst of annoyance was subsiding. I remained silent for a few more minutes before asking how he granted wishes.
“You know, John, just because we are flat mates doesn’t mean that your wishes are the only ones I grant. Every hour, hundreds and thousands of people make wishes and I hear all of them. It’s not as disturbing as you may think. It’s like a faint humming at the back of my mind.”
“So you grant all of them?”
He shook his head. “Not all, certainly not the spur of the moment kinds; just those that the person needs the most. Those stand out most in my thoughts.”
“So you can choose which wishes to grant?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And you don’t have to be with a person physically to grant their wishes?”
“Yes, John.” He drawled.
“So why are you with me?”
He faced me and smiled, “Why do you think?”
***
When I found out that Sherlock had absolutely no clue about astronomy, I decided that I would give him some basic lessons. There was a small balcony in my room and I had set up there the telescope my parents had given me on my thirteenth birthday. After much coaxing on my part and sulking on Sherlock’s, he finally agreed to the lessons.
The lessons weren’t as often as I wanted them to be. Sherlock kept himself busy by being a consulting detective for Scotland Yard and most of the cases he took on kept him busy day and night. He also had odd experiments now and then, which, according to him, couldn’t be left alone for something as unimportant as the solar system.
Still, there were quiet days when there were no experiments or cases and on those days, he would softly ask me if we could go stargazing. On those nights, we would sit in my room and, if the skies were clear, I would point out to him the different constellations and other heavenly bodies. He would listen to me in rapt attention and I reveled in being at the center of this man’s attention
On moonless starless night, we would still be sitting around the telescope, letting the night breeze tickle our noses. Sherlock would still look up at the sky, as if waiting for a star to appear and we would remain in comfortable silence. I cherished those nights because they were when Sherlock was more inclined to talk about himself.
And I couldn’t get enough of those stories.
“I can’t believe you’re over a thousand years old! You don’t look a day over thirty.”
He chuckled, “Don’t get any wrong ideas, John. Just because I age slowly doesn’t mean I’m immortal. A fatal wound can still kill me.”
“Why do you think I keep reminding you to stay out of danger? I don’t know why you don’t listen!” I replied, grinning.
He chuckled again and then we fell silent. After a few moments, I asked him, “Are there others like you?”
“Not quite like me but yes. There are others who can grant wishes, many more than you might think.”
“But why have I never met one before?”
He tipped his head backward, resting it against the back of the chair. “We are a secretive kind. We rarely interact with others, even amongst ourselves.”
“Sounds lonely. I wouldn’t want to live that kind of life if I could live for centuries.”
He turned to me with a meaningful expression. I didn’t bother deciphering the things that flashed in his eyes. I wouldn’t know where to start in the first place. Trusting my instincts, I reached across and grasped his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze.
His gaze journeyed down to our hands then back up to my face. “John…” He whispered in a voice so low it sent shivers across my back.
Without letting go of my hand, he stood up and walked towards me. He knelt beside my chair and tilted his head downwards. I had never been this close to him before but I knew that I would never back away. His breath ghosted over my face, warming my cheeks. Or was it my blushing? I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat, forcing myself to keep my gaze steady.
“Marvelous control for a soldier.” He murmured.
“You’re not doing so bad either.”
Right then, he chose to swoop down and kiss me thoroughly and I knew that come hell or high water nothing and no one was going to keep me from him.
***
“How boring!”
I flinched at the annoying high pitched voice but I refused to look away from the man in the expensive suit. I kept my eyes trained on him because if I didn’t I would be looking at four red dots dancing on Sherlock’s chest. I knew there were four others on mine but those on Sherlock were what I was most afraid of.
Please don’t let any harm come to him. I’ll do anything just please don’t let Sherlock be harmed.
I could feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into my back even as he kept my gun pointed at the semtex strapped vest. Every fiber of me believed that Sherlock knew what I was thinking. What was it he said about the things people need standing out most in his mind? I needed him to be safe and if he chose to ignore that, well…I would have to take action.
Moriarty paced up and down one end of the pool with his hands in his pocket. “I thought so much more of you, Sherlock, but now…” He sucked in air throw his teeth. “Now, you are just plain boring! How could you let yourself sink to his level?” He hissed out the pronoun as if I were the vilest creature on the planet.
“But I can fix that.” Moriarty said. “Oh, it would be so quick to fix that.”
I chose that moment to lunge towards Sherlock. I heard a bang just I toppled into the pool along with Sherlock. Microseconds later, I felt the heat of an explosion on my back and the sudden coolness of the water. Sherlock’s eyes were wide open and I could see the flames reflected in his pupils.
I closed my eyes as I drew him close to me. At that moment, there was nothing more beautiful and comforting than the feeling of our hearts beating a syncopated rhythm.
***
The moment we got back to our flat from the hospital, Sherlock roared and punched me squarely on the face.
“You idiot!”
Even as I was reeling, he took me roughly by my coat, pushed me against the wall and kissed me. It was nothing as gentle as our previous kisses. This one was all teeth and possessiveness. It was as if he wanted to brand me, mark me as his own.
“Sherlock.” I whispered when I pulled away for breath but he never let me finish the sentence.
He began to attack my shirt, pulling and tearing it every way until it came off. It was only then that I realized he was crying. He continued to kiss me, his hands tangling in my hair. His tears rubbed off on my cheek and dripped down to my chest.
“Sherlock.” I tried again in a more commanding voice that was nevertheless gentle. “Sherlock, tell me what’s wrong.”
He looked up at me with pained look. “Why did you do it? How could you throw away all sense of self-preservation for me?”
I reached up to brush my thumb against his quivering lips. “That’s what you do for someone you love, isn’t it?”
“No.” Sherlock spat out. “The answer came too easily.” He laid his hands on my shoulder and shook me. “You’re not thinking straight!”
“There’s no other answer, Sherlock.” I replied, cupping his cheeks with my hands. “I’ve told you I love you and that’s as much a promise to lay down my life for you.”
He growled and began to kiss me again. This time, his kisses were more like thorough explorations but I could feel the desperation running through him as his hands gripped me tightly.
“That can’t be true, John.” He said, “I can’t let you do that.”
I kissed his temple, “Well, if anything happens to me, you can always wish it undone, right?”
He looked at me steadily, “No, John. It doesn’t work like that. I can’t grant my own wishes. I can’t even bring the dead back to life. So, you have to take care of yourself for me, John. Do it for me. I can’t live with the loneliness, John. Never again.”
The enormity of what he had said began to sink in at the same time I remembered what happened at the pool. I closed my eyes and tried to stop the tidal wave of panic rising within me. I could only imagine what Sherlock would do if I had died but I was certain that it would destroy him.
I wrapped my arms around his neck tightly. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t know. I thought—I thought that it was possible. Oh god, I am so very sorry.”
He pressed his forehead against my shoulder and let out a stifled cry. We stayed like that until Sherlock and I had run out of tears. Then we made our way to our room and curled up on the bed, laying in each other’s arms well into the next day.
***
The moment I saw him standing on the edge of the roof of St. Bart’s, my heart shattered into a million pieces that were heavier than the sun and as those pieces sank, I felt parts of me die. The phone in my hand rang. I pressed a button and held the phone to my ear.
“Sherlock, what are you doing—”
“John, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
I squinted against the sunlight that formed a halo around his body. He never looked more beautiful, not since the night he stepped into my tent.
“Go where, Sherlock?”
I saw him rake his hair with his fingers. “Moriarty was right, John. We can’t be together. We would destroy each other.”
“To hell with Moriarty!” I shouted, ignoring the pointed stares some people were giving me. “I’m coming up there.”
“No!” Sherlock protested. “No, John. Stay there. Can you do that for me?”
“Can you at least come down?” When he didn’t say anything, I whispered. “Sherlock, I need you to come down.”
He let out a strangled cry. “No, no I can’t. And I’m sorry, John. This is one time wishes are of no use.”
I raised my arm to shield my eyes and it seemed that he reached out with his at the same time. “Why, Sherlock? Why are you doing this? We promised we’d be together! That was my one wish and you promised to grant it!”
“That’s just it, John. I didn’t grant it. I merely promised and sometimes…sometimes you have to break a promise.”
“Is this that then? You breaking a promise?”
“Not—not entirely. I—I’m sorry, John. I can’t explain.”
I wiped a tear furiously off my cheek, “Tell me, Sherlock. What is this then?”
“This phone call, it's... it's my note.” He paused and I could hear him swallowing. “That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note...”
Right then the last pieces of my shattered heart sank, leaving me in disbelief and fear. “Leave a note when?”
“Good-bye, John...”
Not a second later, I saw Sherlock throw his phone away and raise his arms as if they were wings. I called out to him but that didn’t prevent him from jumping. I closed my eyes, willing myself to not think of Sherlock falling, Sherlock landing with a sickening thud, Sherlock dying alone on the pavement.
The last thought spurred me to action. I jogged to the spot where he must have fallen only to be derailed when a biker crashed into me. The world spun as I toppled and my visions exploded with stars as my head banged against the street. Groaning, I forced myself to stand up. My vision was still swimming when I saw a man dressed in a smart suit and holding a black umbrella kneel beside Sherlock.
He brushed his fingers against Sherlock’s forehead, the tips turnings red with blood. He looked absolutely broken by what he saw, as if he knew Sherlock well and was deeply saddened by what had happened. As I stumbled over to them, I wondered who he was. I had never met him before but as I came closer, I could see some similarities in their features. A relative maybe, but I couldn’t be sure.
Before I could get there, the man opened his umbrella and took hold of Sherlock’s arm. Then the next moment they were both gone. I blinked, trying to clear my vision and hoping that I was hallucinating. But the closer I got, the more it became clear that I would find no comfort in illusions.
Sherlock was gone, gone forever.
So much for my dreams and wishes.
***
Two days after Sherlock died, I received a letter from an anonymous sender. It was handwritten on expensive parchment and the handwriting had intricate loops and curls. It was a short letter, telling me in simple words that Sherlock had been buried in one of the cemeteries in the city and that I could visit him if I wanted.
The first things I did were to march up to my room and cry myself until hiccups stopped me. It was wrong. It was so wrong. How could Sherlock be buried already? None of us—me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade or even Molly—had received any news about it. If we had, we would have gone to the wake and watched over the casket as it was lowered into the grave. It was unfair that none of us would have that chance now
I looked at the letter again, trying to apply Sherlock’s methods to come up with an identity for the sender. After a few minutes, I growled and gave up. All I could tell was that the paper was expensive, a fountain pen was used and that the sender had very good penmanship.
I was tempted to ignore it entirely but the memory of Sherlock and all that we could have had was still vivid. It felt like an insult to this memory if I didn’t pay my respects, especially now that I knew where he was buried.
Having made up my mind, I left our flat—my flat and hailed a taxi to the cemetery. There was a slight overcast that day but strings of sunlight filtered down through the gaps in the clouds. When I arrived, I made my way briskly to the spot that had been pointed out in the letter.
Under an oak tree was a black marble tombstone with only Sherlock’s name engraved on it. Of course. No one would know his birth date, perhaps not even the man who had whisked his corpse away. But I thought Sherlock would have loved the plainness of it and at the same time the elegance of it. From where I stood, a foot away from it, I could see that the marble had gold speckles that resembled the constellations.
I swallowed a lump of emotion that had suddenly lodged itself in my throat. All the times that we had, all the caresses and kisses we shared…they all came back to me. They filled me with grief and such anger that I didn’t know I was capable of.
“You... you told me once that you weren't a hero.” My voice shook but I forced myself to continue. “Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human—”I paused, momentarily struggling to find the right word. “—human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there.”
Taking a step forward, I touched the headstone. It was cold, colder than was possible even for a dreary day like today. I blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more wish, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead.”
My voice cracked then. I gritted my teeth, trying to pull myself together. I would not break down here, not here even when there was no one around. After a few calming breaths, I continued. “Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”
I looked up, closing my eyes. “If there are more of you like him out there,” I whispered, “Please bring him back to me. Please.”
The leaves rustled as if answering my prayer but everything that Sherlock had told me about his kind left doubts in my mind. They couldn’t bring back the dead, Sherlock had said. I understood why but that didn’t comfort me at all…and perhaps it will be a long time before anything can.
Saying good bye once more to Sherlock was difficult but I did it anyway before I left. From the corner of my eye, I spotted two tall men standing under a black umbrella. They were too far away for me to make out their faces clearly and the umbrella cast a shadow over them. I paid them no mind.
Maybe I should have.
Because, while I was in the taxi back to Baker Street, it was only then that I realized one of them was wearing Sherlock’s scarf.