My first story! The idea came to me this morning on the way to church, haha. If you happen to be reading this, then I hope you enjoy– it's probably already been done before— but it was an interesting one for me! Anyway, hope you like it, and I'm open to any ideas on how to better my writing— I plan to stick around for a while!
Anyway. Quick one-shot of John's life after Sherlock's suicide, featuring our wonderful guest star— well, you'll just have to see.
John was tired.
And not just tired in the sense that he hasn't got any rest, although that was a definite part of it. John was exhausted from restless nights spent awake thinking about his friend. His flat mate, his detective. His Sherlock.
Neither he nor Mycroft had found any comfort in Sherlock's absence. The flat was silent now, void of Sherlock's ramblings and his thoughtful music. The violin sat in the corner where he last left it, untouched and unnoticed, mourning the loss of its eccentric owner. The shot-out smiley face remained on the wall, a blunt reminder that the somewhat insane man once existed, once lived and breathed. A reminder that he was once... bored.
John was still searching for a job; most refused to take him due to his emotional scarring. He remained single for the very same reason. Mrs. Hudson visited often, but they rarely could find conversation without mentioning his name. He had been what brought them together; how could they forget that?
But John was tired of it all. He was tired of pretending it didn't hurt— oh God, how it hurt— to think of his old friend. Months had passed, almost a year, yet John would still sit at home in his chair, replaying Sherlock's fall in his mind and finding every way to blame himself. He avoided any thoughts of Moriarty; if you've ever heard of a trigger, then you must know that this was one. His computer was locked away in his desk drawer— without the detective, his blog remained empty, useless. It was overrun with messages left by old followers, condolences, goodbyes, memories. His therapist was unable to help him. Despite every attempt to open him up, John kept his feelings enclosed, unable or unwilling one to share with the world just how much he truly missed the arrogant fool.
Today was no different. The therapist decided, however, to try one last time— she looked at him with a sympathetic smile and whispered, "If you were dying. Right here, now. What would be your last words? What's the first thing that comes to your mind?" John had to stop himself, because the first word that came to mind would have been a sign that he hadn't healed.
It was "finally".
Once the session was over, he hailed a cab and directed it to the grave site where Sherlock now lay. He didn't know why he was here, what he intended to do or say. He just silently trudged forward until he saw his flat mate's name carved into stone. For a long while he simply stood there, staring at the slab. Finally, though, he began to speak.
"I don't understand, Sherlock," he croaked.
He didn't respond. Of course he didn't respond; he was dead. Still, though, John was startled, still subconsciously expecting a snide remark. He shook it off and continued. "I don't understand why. Why did you do this, Sherlock? You were amazing. You were fantastic. Wonderful. You were the guy who walked into Buckingham Palace in a sheet, for heaven's sake. You were the world's only consulting detective..." John trailed off, noticing the waver in his voice. "You were my friend."
You were my friend. Realization began to creep into his head and melancholy exploded into anger. "You were my friend!" he shouted. "You were my friend, Sherlock, and I was yours! I was your friend! You said it yourself, you stupid arse! You didn't have friends. You had one! You were amazing, Sherlock! Forget Moriarty for a moment. You left us behind. You left your brother here— have you seen him, Sherlock? He's a bloody mess! You left me behind! Damn you, Sherlock, you left me!" He kicked the gravestone, then stood there, catching his breath. His eyes began to grow moist. "Damn you, you bloody arrogant fool, damn you," he whispered.
He stood there in silence, unable to speak any longer. It was time to accept it: Sherlock was gone. He had hoped, begged, prayed that he was wrong, that Sherlock has tricked him somehow and was standing behind him every time he came to the grave. But it was all too real.
Suddenly, a pair of gloved hands grabbed him on the shoulders and jerked him back. He didn't have time to react before he was turned around and enveloped in a long wool coat. He looked up in disbelief.
It was Sherlock.
There were tears in his eyes as he looked down upon him. He spoke quickly.
"Listen, John, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for leaving. I'm so sorry. But I promise I won't do it again. I'll never leave you behind." He took a shuddering breath. "Alright. Now I am going to hug you and you are going to enjoy it. Then I will pull away and we will run for our lives because there is a slight chance that somebody is following me and it is not a good time to be followed." John allowed a shocked laugh; Sherlock smiled, then pulled him back into his embrace.
John didn't know what to feel— anger, perhaps? Excitement? Confusion? At the moment, he didn't let himself feel anything expect pure happiness. He buried his face into the long coat, grateful for its warmth. Sherlock had messed up. He had a lot of explaining to do. He had to explain himself. But at that moment, even as Sherlock pulled away and ran off full speed, it was the last thing on either of their minds. He could yell at Sherlock later. He could lecture him and be as angry as he wanted to. But for now, him being there was all that mattered. John ran behind him as shots followed in the background, thinking just how great it was to see his best friend again. The risk of imminent death was just a side effect.
He was there. And that was all John could ask for.