Warning: possible character death, but I'm not going to give that away am I?
Not mine of course.
Stop. Look. Listen. Live. That's want everyone young child was taught at school. But John Watson didn't want to live. What was the point in just staying alive? Just staying. It was so dull, so meaningless. It was ironic really, he thought as he drifted from consciousness, it was a black cab that pulled him into this world and it was a black cab that would give him the blessed relief as it tore him back out.
He just stopped. This world of intrigue and drama no longer held any appeal. Deep inside he knew that he could make a difference too many lives, his medical skill or even the detective skills he'd picked up from Sherlock. But he just couldn't. Couldn't bring himself to continue with that constant knowledge that his best friend, his only true friend was gone. Days passed sat in 221B Baker Street, just sat there waiting, hoping, dreaming. But as months passed he realised his dreams were futile, Sherlock wouldn't return he knew that but he couldn't move on.
He looked. For three months he searched. A part of his brain clung to the fact that this was Sherlock Holmes, the man who accomplished the impossible on a daily basis. They'd both defied death more times than he cared to remember, just once more? Was that too much to ask? So he looked, looked around he spent a whole day on top of Bart's trying to piece together the story. He visited Mycroft at his gentleman's club, spent a week rifling through Sherlock's possessions hoping for a clue that perhaps they'd made a mistake. Sherlock had a twin brother; he survived the fall…anything.
He listened. Mrs. Hudson was devastated, Sherlock was like a son to her, so John spent hours sat just listening to her as she spoke, of memories, of guilt, of Sherlock. And he listened, drank her tea and let her speak. He'd worked with enough post-war victims to recognise the different symptoms of grief. Whilst he curled up in his chair alone, Mrs. Hudson needed to let it out and once she started she couldn't stop. It was painful to listen to; his heart broke every time he heard her call' boys!' up the stairs. He stayed though and he would for as long as he lived.
He tried to live. He really did. To the people around he was healing getting better, Lestrade would frequently meet him at the pub for a drink, he'd try to involve him with a case or two but that hit a blank wall. He smiled occasionally, not one that quite met his eyes but it was a start.
It was Lestrade he'd gone to meet that day, outside Scotland Yard, he stepped of the pavement as the cab raced round the corner. The screech of tyres, the blaring horn, and then silence. He felt to arms around him pulling him from the wreckage, the pain wasn't too bad, he could survive but what was the point what was there to live for? He could just let go. He opened his eyes for the final time and gasped in shock. Two grey eyes peered down at him concerned. He blinked at scrambled to his feet.
'Sherlock?'
This was my first fanfiction, I can't believe I've finally done one. Reviews would be nice, is it worth me doing anymore? Thanks for reading