970 Days- A Johnlock Fanfiction

by Amalya Cumberlock

My first ever fanfiction, so please review and don't be to harsh! A post-Reichenbach fanfiction about how John tries to move on, and how he and Sherlock meet again. A bit Johnlock fluff at the end.

970 Days\ a Johnlock Fanfiction

"Goodbye, John" Sherlock's voice shook as he said his last words to the man standing under the building he was on. "No… Sherlock!" John screamed. The worlds only consulting detective standing on the roof of saint Bart's hospital dropped his phone of the building. He stepped off of it and waited for his body to hit the Pavement. John saw him, and tried running towards him, but was hit by a biker after taking a step. When he got up a fistful of people where crowded at the feet of the building. John got up and, as if in slow motion, ran to them.

"Let me through please, I'm a doctor," John said in a shaking voice to the crowd. When that didn't work, he said slowly, on the verge of tears," he's my friend, let me through. " he got to the center of the circle of people and saw the body of a man wrapped in a black coat sprawled on the ground. He was flipped over, and even though he knew who it was, john was still shocked. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, lay on his back, blue eyes open and his face covered in blood. "Oh, Jesus..." Mumbled John, who was being pulled back by the paramedics. He tried to fight his way to Sherlock, but his body failed him and he fell to his knees as Sherlock was carried away.

That night, John lay motionless and awake in His bed. Tomorrow Mycroft would hold a funeral, and the few people who knew and liked Sherlock would be there. When John got to the funeral he saw more people than he expected. There where at least half a dozen black haired people sitting in the front with Mycroft, all of them probably his family. But the rows behind them were full: some he recognized, like Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and surprisingly, Anderson and Donovan. There where also people from different cases he and Sherlock had solved. Molly Hooper walked up to him and took him by the hand. They had never talked much, but since she was obviously and utterly infatuated with the man when he was living, she could understand, even if in a different way, the pain John was feeling. She silently guided him to the front row and seated him next to Mycroft. With a nod, she moved to the back. But John didn't want her to leave, nor did he want to sit next to the Holmes man whom he partially blamed for Sherlock's jump, since he had given Moriarty so much information about his younger sibling. "Wait," John whispered and caught her wrist. He pulled lightly, looking her in the eyes. She took the hint and sat down between him and Mycroft. John didn't remember much of the funeral except that people seemed to be more sorry for him than any of Sherlock's family members, as if he where a mourning widow. The next few days were a blur. They were all arrangements of what to do with Sherlock's things, and Sarah had given him some sleeping pills. The pills left him cloudy all day, and though they helped him sleep at night he had nightmares, in which he saw many different scenes and settings which all ended the same way- Sherlock jumping of a cliff, building, volcano or anything tall to his death, which John had to witness over and over in his head. To him, his life was empty, no one left to love or be loved by. Lestrade would call a few times a week to make sure he was okay, and so would Mycroft, but John never answered those calls. The first time he had talked to him was 24 days after the funeral. John had went to the kiosk around the corner of 221b Baker Street to buy some eggs and wine, when he saw the man leaning on his umbrella on the corner if the street.

"You can't hide from me forever, John," he said with an exasperated sigh.

"Why do you want to talk to me so much?" John asked, "I'm not a family member. You shouldn't care for me just because my best friend d-" he couldn't finish the sentence. He had said it to his therapist 19 days after the funeral, but it was the only time and he didn't think he could do it again without having a breakdown.

"I don't care for you. " answered Mycroft.

"At least not as much as you think. But you were my brothers' best friend, and I think that he wouldn't have wanted you to be this way about his death. " Mycroft said the last words so casually, as if they meant nothing to him.

" So, I am going to have to make sure you sleep, eat, and occasionally date. If we're on that subject, then let me tell you that you have a date this Friday. " he added.

"Oh, I do?" Asked John with an irritated tone. How could Mycroft do these things without even asking him?

"Yes. Lovely girl, Amy, I think she was a bit of a fan of your blog. " Mycroft said in a bored tone. "Anthea, if you remember her, will pick you up at 8. "

With that, he turned around and walked if into the gloomy streets of London.

On Friday, John woke up at 4 in the morning. That night Sherlock had jumped of the palm of his hand, and even though John grabbed for him, Sherlock fell straight into Richard Br- Moriarty's palm, which closed and crushed him like he was nothing. He decided having the dreams was better than not, since in them he got to see Sherlock. Around 9am Mrs. Hudson came upstairs to find him sitting in his chair with a full and cooled cup of tea in his hand, staring at the chair that used to be his flat mates. "Oh, dear. Would you like me to make you some breakfast?" She asked in a quiet voice. "No thank you." John answered after a moment. Another few seconds past before Mrs. Hudson said "oh, John, a few things came in the mail for you today. I think you may want them. " As she went downstairs to get them, John thought to himself 'probably not..' But when she came back, she laid on the sofa in front of him Sherlock's coat and scarf. At first he just stared at them, but after what seemed like hours he got up from his chair, took the coat and wrapped it around himself. Though it was obviously to long for him, he was surprised to see it wrapped around him perfectly, as if he where Sherlock's size. I must have lost a few pounds, he thought, since he had always been larger than Sherlock in every aspect but height. At around 7 pm Mycroft came to his flat. "I know I said Anthea would pick you up, but she is so glued to her phone I don't think she'd realize you aren't in the car until she got home." He sighed at the sight of John in front if him, staring into the space of the dark flat. "John, go get dressed. " Mycroft said quietly, a tone of pity in his voice. John got up from his chair and went upstairs. He dressed as he usually would for a first date, but instead if his favorite green coat he took Sherlock's, which, when standing, almost reached his ankles. Thought he gave John an odd look, Mycroft didn't comment. They drove to a nice restaurant John had past by but never ate in since it was to pricey for him and stopped. Mycroft reached into his pocket and took his credit card out. He handed it to John

"I can't..." John whined. "No. You will take my card, go have a nice dinner, pretend you paid for it yourself and go home. Understood?" Mycroft said in what seemed to be his cross-business tone. John took the card from Mycroft's hand silently and got out of the car. After waiting a few minutes the girl arrived. She was johns type: younger, attractive, smiley, but that wasn't enough. After having a good dinner and very small talk, the girl (Amelia? Amanda?) Seemed disappointed but left him with a small smile and a wave of her hand. That night he didn't take Sarah's pills, and when he finally fell asleep he dreamt that the girl from dinner and Sherlock were on a date instead of him. At the end, she threw a drink in his face and stormed out. Since that date, 27 days after the funeral, every time Mycroft had sent John on a date he didn't take his pills and dreamt about Sherlock going out with whichever girl it was he had dinner with, all resulting with a drink in his face. Those were johns' favorite dreams, so he agreed to go on dates more often. 59 days after the funeral Mrs. Hudson convinced him to come to Sherlock's grave with her. She had gone alone 3 times already, but john wouldn't come. He wasn't ready for what might have been for him; the final proof Sherlock was no longer with him. After Mrs. Hudson left him alone, he remembered what his therapist had told him to do. "Tell him what you wanted to say, but couldn't or didn't have time." it seemed silly, but he decided to try. He didn't remember anything he had said except his last words that came out shaky. "There's just one more thing. One more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this." He then put his hand on his face and sobbed for a few moments, then composed himself for the ride back to Baker Street. 68 days after Sherlock's' funeral John went for a walk. Every once in a while Mrs. Hudson would push him to do so, saying it was good for his health and would clear his mind. He walked around for a while, until he realized he was in the skating park from his second case with Sherlock, which in his blog he had called "the blind banker". At first he kept walking, but then he halted in front of one of the walls. All around him, on all of the walks he could see in different shades of yellow paint were written phrases such as "I believe in Sherlock Holmes", "Moriarty was real", and so on. He read many of them, some on the walls some on the floor, but after a while he reached a small corner. On it, in handwriting he swore was Sherlock's', was written, "John Watson is not alone". When he saw that, he got to his knees and cried, one hand on the spidery writing and the other covering his face. He didn't care that the few people there stopped and stared; he didn't care what they thought of him. All he cared about at the moment was the person who had written that, and he was sure that it had been Sherlock, even if he was dead. That night was the second time John had cried since that day at the feet of saint Bart's.

109 days after Sherlock's death, harry visited.

"So, how are things going?" She had asked, trying to start a conversation for the ninth time. Every one of them was cut short by Johns' answers. "Fine." He said.

She fidgeted in her chair, and it was obvious to John that she had something to tell him.

"What is it, harry? Just tell me already before you grit your teeth to nubs. "

She stared at him. "Fine. Mum wants you too move in with me. " She said in an even tone.

John was surprised. The last time he had spoken to his mother was 4 days before the funeral, as he now realized. He stopped picking up phone calls awhile after the funeral, and she must have been worried sick.

"No. " he said, his face unchanged. "I am not a child. I can take care if myself, and I am not leaving this flat."

Harry seemed to lose her temper.

"Able to take care of yourself? Are you kidding me? Not only is this place a dump, you barely get out, you can't keep up a conversation with your own sister, I can see your ribs through that jumper and you won't ever take of that damn coat!" It was true: mrs Hudson must have been in touch with his sister because he wore it all the time: when he had breakfast, when he went on dates, when he slept. He never took it of. He wanted to shout at her, but knew better.

"Leave. " was all he said. When all she did was stare at him in shock, he said "harry, leave please. " in a quiet tone. She gave him a look that somehow had pity, disgust and sorrow in it all at once and left without uttering a word.

John checked his phone once a week, and always saw the same thing:

2 missed calls from Lestrade.

5 texts from Mycroft.

No messages or calls from his family.

This didn't make him sad. He was past being sad 61 days after the funeral. For a while he was angry, but then all he felt was numb.

117 days after the funeral John stopped taking Sarah's pills, since they stopped helping and he couldn't focus on anything during the day, although that symptom probably wasn't caused be the pills.

150 days after the funeral Lestrade came to the flat.

"Listen, John, we need you for a case. "

"Why? I'm not him; I can't see everything like he did. " He said to the man in front of him.

"We need someone," he said with a sigh," and as far as I know, you knew him and his methods the best. So… Will you do it?" He asked hopefully.

"Fine. But I ask for payment." He said and got up. The whole time at the crime scene everybody looked at him, either wondering what he was doing there or if he was good enough. Turns out he was. Every once in a while Lestrade would call him up for the tougher cases and he would help. He got better, though not as good as the first consulting detective. Sometimes he could shut thoughts of Sherlock out of his head. Usually when he was at a case he couldn't, and he would pretend Sherlock was guiding him, showing him what he couldn't see.

194 days after the funeral the limp came back. It started in the morning, when John got up to make coffee and tripped. The rest of the week his leg hurt more and more until he had to start using his cane again. Also, he couldn't stop thinking of Sherlock anymore. He thought he was going mad, since it wasn't only thoughts anymore, he imagined his friend was standing next to him. He would make 2 cups of tea in the morning, put the newspaper on Sherlock's side first and only when he finished reading he would take it, and had fights with him about his experiments. When they would fight Mrs. Hudson would come upstairs to see John shouting at an empty chair, which made her cry. That's when John decided to take pills again. 246 days after the funeral John thought he saw Sherlock. A tall man with curly black hair and a hoodie bumped into him at the mall. "Sorry," he mumbled in a low voice and continued. At first John just stood there, staring, but then he ran after him, yelling "Sherlock? Sherlock!" The man saw him and ran away, but John tackled him. He had to wait for 3 hours until Mycroft bailed him out. That was the first of 6 different people he would tackle.

365 days after the funeral Molly invited John to a memorial at her house. He had never been there and didn't want to come, but he did anyway. At the memorial Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and, again surprising him, Sally and Anderson sat quietly around a table with pictures of Sherlock and cutouts of newspapers. Molly handed each guest an unlit candle and past around a lighter. Each guest lit his or her candle and set it quietly on the table. John couldn't light his candle; his hand was shaking to hard, so Sally helped him. He cried that night again.

372 days after the funeral, John opened Sherlock's room for the first time since his death. He had woken up from a nightmare in which he and Sherlock were at the pool again with Moriarty, but that time they had been blown up. He took his cane and went downstairs to make some tea, but he couldn't poor the boiled water into his cup because his hands were shaking. Suddenly, he heard a voice from Sherlock's room. It sounded like a low mutter, like the one Sherlock used to make when he was thinking. He walked noiselessly into the room to see it empty. It was odd for him to see it, since it was exactly as Sherlock had left it. He went to the bed and sat on it. He gripped the sheets as strong as he could, as of trying to squeeze anything left of Sherlock's from them, and began crying. He lay on the bed all night, wrapped in Sherlock's coat and curled up in a ball like a child. Since then, he would only sleep there.

421 days after the funeral, John felt alone. He always felt alone, of course, bit it felt as if he were sitting at the bottom of a dark lake, shut of from the people around him and any sound or light. That morning Sarah had given Him a new bottle of sleeping pills. He looked at it for a while, and then picked it up. He filled a glass of water and sat on Sherlock's bed. After thinking about it once again, he put 10 pills in his hand and swallowed them one by one. He lay on the bed and waited for the peaceful quiet to take over him.

The Next morning Mrs. Hudson found him on the bed, barely breathing. "John? John, please answer me," she said to the man, shaking him. She called Lestrade in a shaky voice and he sent over the paramedics. John woke up 12 days later in a hospital bed. He had tried to take his life but failed. Once again, he was alone.

440 days afterlife the funeral he was released from the hospital, but Mrs. Hudson watched him every waking moment, making sure he wouldn't attempt to kill himself again. She started relaxing 3 weeks later. 465 days after the funeral, almost everybody John knew sent him to therapy. He didn't go to his usual therapist, since Mycroft insisted she wasn't suitable anymore, and never was. His new therapist was very nice and good at her job, but he couldn't open up to her very well. 500 days after the funeral John went for a walk again. He bumped into Stamford, whom he hadn't seen since the funeral. They got coffee and chatted a bit, but after a few moments to many of silence his old friend said, "I hear you haven't been dealing very well with Sherlock's death." He had a very sorry look on his face, and he really seemed to care about John. John remembered that Mikes honesty and straight forwardness was what made him want to be his friend in the first place. "It's hard, but I feel like I might be getting better. " he lied.

"I know," Stamford said," about you trying to.." He didn't need to continue His sentence. John pretended he didn't hear what he said and they kept making small talk. At the end of their meeting the man surprised John by hugging him, turning around and leaving.

530 days after the funeral, John started smoking. He had found one of Sherlock's old boxes and tried it out. At first he chocked, but after a few try's he found it quite relaxing. A few weeks later he left cigarettes for weed. It was accidental- a drug dealer who also owned a small kiosk accidentally gave John a box he had rolled for himself instead if a cigarette box. John had tried it out, and for the hours he did he could see Sherlock, speak to him and touch him. He started smoking on a daily basis.

730 days after the funeral Lestrade invited him to Sherlock's 2-year memorial, but he refused. He stayed in the flat all day, but decided to clean. He organized all of Sherlock's books alphabetically; put his files in the empty cabinets he owned, put his papers together and made a scrapbook. After that, he went to his room and organized his clothes by color, but he didn't change his sheets because they still smelled like him. 756 days after the funeral, John stopped. He didn't go to rehab; he just decided he didn't want to smoke anymore. At first he was easily irritated, but slowly he came back to his lonely self.

798 days after the funeral, John met Mary. It was one of the blind dates he had once a month and it was at Angelo's. When Mycroft dropped him of there, Angelo greeted him and said that anything on the menu was free, in memory of Sherlock. When Mary came in, she seemed like every girl that Mycroft had ever brought him. But once they started talking, John didn't ever want to stop. They barely ate the food they ordered, and at the end of the night John invited her to his apartment, not for anything physical, just to keep talking. They stayed up all night, and John even told her about Sherlock. In the morning, he called her a cab and kissed her. if it weren't in the morning, it would have been there first goodnight kiss. For the first time in over 2 years, John didn't feel alone. The weeks after their meeting the couple was inseparable, always talking or waking or sleeping or anything. Mary even got John to eat at least twice a day. One night, she told him "Sweetie, why don't you take off that coat? It's a bit too long for you, and you never wash it. it must be filthy."

"You know I can't, luv, lets just go to bed, alright?" He said calmly. He felt like she understood everything he did.

"Fine. Goodnight, sweetie."

"Goodnight, Mary."

839 days after the funeral, Mary finally cracked.

"John, we need to talk." She said to him on their daily call from work. "Ok, tonight. Ill make you dinner," he smiled. He thought nothing of it. That evening as he was eating his spaghetti Bolognese, Mary spoke to him.

"Honey, can we talk about you and Sherlock?" She said.

"Sure, but don't we always?" He answered between bites.

"That's exactly my point. I have a question: were you in love with him?" She asked. John dropped his fork.

"Of course not! I can't believe that even my girlfriend thinks I'm gay!" He said in a louder voice than he intended.

"I never said you were attracted to him, I am asking if you are in

Love with him!" She said in an equally loud tone.

"I am NOT, nor was I ever, I love with Sherlock Holmes!" He said.

"I'm not sure I believe you, John. Yes, I love you very much, and we talk about many things, but our talks always go back to Sherlock! 'Me and Sherlock did this,' 'me and Sherlock went there,' 'oh you wouldn't believe what he did that one time..'" John cut her off.

"Oh, I'm sorry I talk about my dead best friend so much! It must be really hard to hear about him!"

"It is! We never speak about us, because it's always about you two! You know what? I'm going home..." She said, suddenly looking tired. She got up and walked to the door. "Wait!" John said, picking up his cane and limping towards her.

"What do you want? Just tell

Me, I'll do anything for you..." He said, looking her in the eyes. Her eyes were sad and her voice was quiet when she replied, "don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes." With that she turned around and left the apartment. The words rang in John's head as he stood in front of the closed door. It wasn't the first time a woman had said those words to him. It seemed that, even after his death, Sherlock came before everyone in his life. After that night, Mary never called. John went back to being alone.

970 days after the funeral, John thought he had gone mad again. He went to the kiosk to get some coffee, when the man in the grey hoodie behind him bumped into him and made him spill his coffee. "Watch it," John had said in an irritated tone and continued waking. "Sorry," the man said in a low voice. John's head snapped up. He knew he had already tackled 5 different people, and he knew it probably wasn't Sherlock, but once again something wild came over him. He turned around to the man. "Hey!" He said. For a split second, the man turned around. He had blue eyes, just like Sherlock did. There eyes met, and the man's widened in alarm. He turned around and started waking away quickly. Johns cane fell to the ground as he started running. The man was slim and had long legs, but John's body was flowing with adrenaline, and soon there were only a few feet between them. John lunged at the man, and they both fell to the ground. "Get off of me," the man said in a rough voice, and tried wriggling form under him. John held him down and ripped his hood of. Under him was a man with sharp features, high cheekbones, blue eyes and curly dark hair. Sherlock bit his lip and stared up at the man on top of him. "John." He said before he could stop himself.

John's eyes swelled with tears. He wanted to punch Sherlock, to ignore his existence, to be mad at him, to know why he left, but before all that he wanted to hug him. So he did. He gripped him in a tight embrace and started sobbing into his hoodie. "Sh- Sheh- Sherlock.." He said, and repeated his name over and over.

"John, calm down.." Sherlock said. He wrapped his arms around his friend and returned the embrace. By now it was impossible to attracted any more attention. John realized that and got of the man beneath him and helped him up. Sherlock gave him a reassuring smile, which came out almost shaky and worried and made John giggle. Suddenly the small man came back to his senses and became serious. He shouldn't be giving Sherlock any sympathy, he should be angry with him.

"Lets take this back to the flat." He said. At that exact moment he remembered that he was limping again, which made his leg go limp ad he fell to the ground..

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked with a worried look, though he knew about the limp.

"My leg, you idiot, the limp came back..." John said between gritted teeth. Saying those words made the anger stronger in him and easier to look away from the man he had thought dead for the past 3 years. They walked back to the kiosk to get johns cane, while Sherlock muttered under his breath about it being psychosomatic and a waste of time, and walked back to Baker Street. The walk was quiet, the bleakness of the past 970 days still laying heavily on both of them. When they reached 221b, John opened the door and made sure Mrs. Hudson wasn't home before letting Sherlock in. It didn't seem like the right time for an emotional reunion between the two.

John limped slowly up the stairs, Sherlock standing patiently behind him. When they reached the living room, John wouldn't sit down, he couldn't. He slowly paced around the room, Sherlock standing by the doorway, leaning against the wall, waiting for John to react. Suddenly, John spun around and faced him.

"Wha… How… Say something, please." John said, his face suddenly crumbling like a bridge, pleading.

Sherlock walked towards John and stood mere inches from him.

"I'm… I'm so sorry, John. Please forgive me." He said.

John looked up at the consulting detective. "Why did you do that? Why did you leave me for so long?" he asked.

"John, it was Moriarty. He said I was… A distraction. He said that he had snipers set up, that they would kill you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, unless they saw me jump. I told him that as long as he was alive there had to be a way to stop the snipers, so he- Killed himself. That's why I disappeared. I always followed you, wanted to make sure you were alright-"

"And did I SEEM alright to you? I haven't worked for anyone in months, except for the occasional case for Lestrade, my limp came back, I ruined the best romantic relationship I've had in my life, and I wear your coat everywhere, for fucks sake!" John cut Sherlock off.

"John, listen, I wanted to make sure there was no way you could get hurt! I still want to make sure, but then we accidentally bumped into each other…" Sherlock tried to explain himself, putting both hands on the sides of Johns face. John pushed him off, turning to face the window.

It was hard to stay mad at Sherlock, but it was so hard, especially because he understood now that the reason all this happened was because… he cared for him. Sherlock was showing John his human side and he was pushing him off. He turned back around.

"I'm happy you're back 'Sherlock," he said, walking up to him and, awkwardly, trying to hug him. Sherlock quickly pulled him in to a tight embrace, tears stinging his eyes. He missed his blogger. His…

After what felt like hours of hugging, the two pulled away.

Sherlock smiled. "I'm happy you reacted this way. I thought you would do something more drastic, like-" his words were cut off by Johns fist in his face, and the impact with the floor. John pulled him up.

"That felt good," he said, rubbing his fist. Sherlock stared at him, and suddenly fell in to a fit of laughter.

"What?" John asked, oblivious to the reasons of Sherlock's euphoric laugh.

"You avoided my nose and teeth. Somebody still loves me." He said. John stared at his flat mate for a moment, and then broke into a smile.

"You, Sherlock Holmes, are an insufferable idiot." He smiled at his best friend.

The two stood there, smiling at each other, when suddenly John walked towards Sherlock, closing the space between them, held his face and kissed him hard on the lips. Sherlock stood there, shocked, unable to move. After a few moments, John backed up.

"I'm- I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I" he stuttered.

"It's alright, John, you…" Sherlock said.

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm just-" John muttered, trying to explain his act, but his mind went blank.

"It really is alright, John." The taller man said, taking the top of his friends' head and kissing it softly.

"My John…"

"I love you, Sherlock." John said, hugging his flat mate.

"I love you too, John." The other man smiled, tipping his bloggers chin up and kissing him softly.

"Don't you dare leave me like that again, you hear me?" the smaller said, breaking away from the kiss.

"No shit, Watson." Sherlock said, smiling.