Loss

He was at a crime scene with Sherlock when it occurred. John felt it, even light years away from Asgard. The deep void consuming his heart, the hot burning touch surrounding his skin, and the inexplicable ache spearing his soul. He stumbled and fell on his knees, completely unaware of Sherlock and Lestrade rushing towards him and calling for a medic.

The medics chalked it up to severe shock, though from what they did not know. The crime scene was nothing unusual for the duo, and Sherlock could not deduce anything relevant. So they bundled the comatose John, sat him in his armchair at Bakers Street, and Mrs. Hudson set a cup of tea down.

It wasn’t until hours later that John suddenly shot up and ran outside. There was a brilliant pillar of light that shot down and burned a circle of runes on the concrete, and kept Mycroft busy for the better part of the week.

For once, ironically, Sherlock was the one left behind with not a single clue as to what occurred. So he did something that would have surprised even Mycroft. He got out a telescope and stared into the sky. Hoping, perhaps, to see a sign that John was alright. The only curious clue he saw was the increase number of starlight that suddenly appeared on the eastern end. He stayed at the scope until the sun’s light melted the dark sky and starlight into clear blue skies.

John did not come back the next day. In fact, he did not return until after the giant spaceship touched down in Greenwich and ripped holes in the sky.

Long story short. Thor had an epic throw down with evil aliens. Science was done/pulled out of the ass. And the world was saved.  

The day after was quite ordinary, excluding the dozens of Quinjets and SHIELD personnel at ground zero.

Sherlock was with his pesky brother. You would think Mycroft would be up to his ass with paperwork after Greenwich, but he still had time to “have a little tea”.

Fortunately, John returned just in time. Only, he was not in his usual jumper. Instead, he was wearing a full armor with a matching helmet and a flowing red cape. A long broadsword was grasped tightly in his left hand, and on his shoulder was a golden falcon. He exuded a brilliant light, and Sherlock felt the vast strength and age of the god.

“I take it you’re trying on a new fashion statement.” Sherlock commented. Mycroft, for once, was actually speechless.

John frowned disapprovingly, but his eyes were much lighter than before. “Don’t mock the royal armor, Sherlock.”

“I have to know though: what is the matter with all your helmets. I feel like they’re just a tragic accident waiting to happen. One head nod and suddenly you accidently impale someone.”

John laughed lightly. He touched one of the horns on his head. “It’s a good way to keep people away from us.”

“…that is actually a good idea. Perhaps it may work on Anderson. Either way, the end result would be spectacular.”

John smiled wider and with a swish of his hand, the armor disappeared, and he was Sherlock’s John again.

“Mycroft,” John said, turning to the gaping man. “Sorry about Greenwich. I was busy fending off Malakai’s other elves trying to get onto Earth. Still, must be a bit of a PR nightmare for you.”

“Director Fury has helped a bit on that end.” Mycroft said thinly, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that John was a god. No wonder the man wasn’t fazed by anything.

John smiled, “Good, I’m glad that SHIELD’s gotten off their asses and helped out.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft mumbled, “I suppose I should be off then. John, brother dear.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s going to be insufferable in the coming days.”

“You’re not the one he’s going to interrogate.” John replied as he sat down in his armchair.

“Just knowing where he’s poking his fat nose is enough to make him insufferable.” Sherlock replied.

John laughed, and the two sat peacefully with only the sound of Sherlock’s violin filling the room.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you when I left.” John said. “I felt bad when I finally remembered.”

“Hm, it was barely a hardship.” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He lied. Everyone was too dull to help him. The flat was too empty, and Sherlock had looked up into the night sky every evening just to try and get a glimpse of John.

John seemed to understand though. “I left because I felt one of my oldest, dearest friend die.”

Sherlock stopped playing and listened intently. John rarely spoke about his Asgardian life, and every bit of information was priceless to Sherlock.

“Frigga, she…she was killed by the Dark Elves.” John continued. “I had to be there for her funeral at least. I had to make sure she made her way to the stars, where she rightfully belongs.”

Sherlock came closer to John and placed a hand on his shoulder. John smiled up, and Sherlock went back to the window and picked up his violin.

The bittersweet notes of Bach’s Air on G String filled the flat until dawn.