A/N: I wrote this right after I first saw the Richenbach Fall, as my first-ever fanfiction. Unfortunately, it got lost in my computer, only to be found recently. I've changed a bit as a writer since then, and my headcannon has changed a lot, but my wonderful beta star-eye (check her stuff out, seriously!) encouraged me to only do minor edits instead of massive rewrites.
It *should* be around 10 chapters. My regulars will tell you that that probably means it will be at least 20, but we'll see. I should be able to update weekly, sooner if the cliffhanger is too evil. I am not Moffat. Or Gatiss, or anyone of real importance to this wonderful show. Ergo, I own nothing. Hope you enjoy!
Three sodden years. Bastard. John closes his eyes. Sighs. The teacup in his hand starts rattling in the saucer. Damnit. Most of the time, he can keep it under control. He is Dr. John Watson, who has not had a relapse in his psychosomatic limp. He does not have nightmares of a certain someone more often than Afghanistan. And he most certainty does not miss the barmy idiot that he used to share a flat with. Definitely not. Because he is Dr. John Watson and he can stand on his own two perfectly sound feet and have a perfectly normal life on his own.
Or at least pretend.
He's forced himself to go to Bart's at least once every week, walk right past that spot as if it's just any other piece of sidewalk, not the place where his best friend bashed his brilliant brain all over the concrete. He hopes that over time the memories won't be quite so sharp, quite so painful. So far, it hasn't been working. The blood has long since been washed away, but all he still sees is red, red, red on that pavement.
He's forced himself to have tea with Mrs. Hudson every week too. Her mothering is a relief sometimes and a burden others. She's gotten new tenants. Nice normal ones, she says. John can tell that she doesn't like them, but she never says as much, just as she'd never admit to missing both her boys, especially the tall, handsome one. Or the fact that she really didn't mind being their housekeeper, which was just another name for mum.
He's forced himself to visit Scotland Yard every now and again, because Lestrade asked. At first it was awkward, everyone feeling guilty and refusing to look at him. Donovan still ignores him like it's an Olympic sport. But John doesn't care what they all thought or what they did, they were wrong. People make mistakes. And then they move on.
Lestrade badly pretends everything is fine, nothing has changed, and still lets John in at crime scenes. Mostly for old-time's sake. But John sometimes notices things that the official police missed. A missing earring or a scuffed belt, an unusual rash or a particular scar, a peculiar smell…The little details that a certain smart-ass was forever pointing out. Lestrade knows better than to bring that up though, and they always go to the pub for a pint once they can leave.
John only ever has that one pint though. He vehemently refuses to let himself drink to ease the pain. He will not end up like his father, choking on his own vomit till he died. He will not be like Harry, losing everything she cared about to an unfeeling bottle. He's already lost everything he ever cared about, no point in trying to drink it away. So he only ever drinks his one pint of beer every now and again with Lestrade, to take the edge off the fact that he can never look at the world the same way again because of some abnormally observant git that he used to hang around.
But John can't observe the world today, can't even leave his apartment. Mycroft called (surprise, surprise). Said that there was a known sniper that just moved into the apartment complex across from his. That he had been seen watching John's movements. That Mycroft was handling the situation and not to do anything… rash. John had hung up on him. He never had much patience for the man. If he died, he died. He wouldn't mind. He would have fought, had fought, and fought hard, before. But not now, when he didn't have anything to live for.
Suicide wasn't an option anymore. Someone had made sure of that with his little "note". Bloody git.
John always makes a good show outside of his apartment, of course. He has a steady job. He is good at it too, almost enjoys it. He can almost forget when he is there, helping people. But he always remembers when he comes back to his spotlessly clean apartment, clean because there isn't anything, anyone, interesting in it to clutter it up. It's tiny, but always seems too large. Too empty. Too alone.
He dates. Without a jealous flatmate barging in every five minutes it's a lot easier. And harder. He tries to have a good time, he knows how to treat the ladies right, how to play the game called love. But it never works out. John is a broken man, dead inside, and they can tell.
He tries to stay healthy. He has time for three square meals a day (not that he eats much), eight hours of sleep (not that he can sleep much) and a trip to the gym as well. But John is still hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, and weak in a way no amount of muscle can fix.
His therapist is proud of him. He isn't surprised. He'd learned how to (almost) lie to one of the most observant men in the world—and his therapist isn't nearly that good. She said he had made excellent progress, had grieved properly, had moved on with his life. Right. He updates his blog to keep her off his back, although hardly anyone follows it anymore because of the conspicuous lack of one dramatic idiot. He'd finally caved to the rather alarming amount of fanmail piling up at his old flat and had published a book version of the blog: Living with the World's Only Consulting Detective. It was still widely and wildly popular a year and a half later. He would never have to worry about flat-sharing because he was broke, that's for sure. He acts like he cares. He doesn't.
Writing that book was like stabbing himself repeatedly in the chest, wrenching out the words that he had said, that he hadn't said, as if they were bloody knives. He had honestly thought that after a while, every sentence, every word, every letter, would stop hurting as much as the last, that eventually he'd become numb, be able to ignore it. He had been wrong. Getting shot was far less painful than that final sentence.
John told the truth in that book. His friend wasn't a fake, couldn't possibly even fake a fake. Moriarty, on the other hand, was absolutely real. But he didn't say it in as many words—let the readers decide for themselves. If they couldn't separate the truth from the lies they were idiots that deserved to be deceived. So he was still following that last request. Sort of. He found that he didn't particularly care if he did or not.
Three sodden years. Might as well call it an eternity in hell and be done with it.