Just Enough, a sherlock fanfic

Title: Just Enough
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Johnlock
Category: Angst / Tragedy
Type: One-Shot
Tags: deathfic, post Reichenbach
Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own anything regarding the BBC series Sherlock. I only own my stories.
Summary: Johnlock deathfic. post Reichenbach. Dead. Just dead. It had been a few months now and still the fact that Sherlock was simply gone hadn't really sunk in. He had lost Sherlock, his Sherlock, his friend, his best friend. It still hurt. A lot. The pain just wouldn't pass, would never leave John's body, John's heart. But somehow John enjoyed feeling pain, because at least he felt something.

Just Enough

John lay on the couch in the apartment of 221B Baker Street, on Sherlock's favorite spot, crying. Dead. Just dead. It had been a few months now and still the fact that Sherlock was simply gone hadn't really sunk in. John had felt the pain, a lot of it, all of it. He had lost Sherlock, his Sherlock, his friend, his best friend. It still hurt. A lot. The pain just wouldn't pass, would never leave John's body, John's heart. But somehow John enjoyed feeling pain, because at least he felt something. There had been a time when he had simply been numb. Had felt nothing. No sorrow, no regret, no pain, just nothing. John would like to say that those had been the worst few weeks and that now the worst was over, but he knew it wasn't. It would never be over, he would never accept the fact that Sherlock just left him here, that Sherlock just jumped, that Sherlock just died. John simply denied to accept that, because it couldn't be true. How could he. How could Sherlock do this to him. How could he just leave him. Anger. Not the first time John had felt it in the past couple of months. He had basically been through every possible human emotion. Sorrow. Regret. Pain. Anger. Hate. Love. Just all of them. But always, always would he get stuck with the one. Love. Just love.

Sherlock had meant everything to John, and John hated himself for the fact that Sherlock had to die for him to finally see it. He wasn't just a friend, just a college. He was so much more. He was everything. Because now that John lay on the couch, like so many nights before, just captured in his own thoughts, trapped in a loop that was replaying Sherlock's death over and over again, day, night, all the time, torturing him, haunting him, without escape, because now that he lay here, trembling with tears, trembling with emptiness, trembling with the overwhelming feeling of being lost, trembling with the overwhelming feeling of being alone, he knew. And suddenly flashes of other horrible memories broke through and interrupted the replay of Sherlock's death. Flashes of John when he was back in war. Alone. And yet still, not even as he lay there, people firing over him, being shot, not sure if he was going to survive or not, not even then had he felt more helpless, not even then had he felt more afraid, more alone than he was feeling right now, than he was feeling without Sherlock. Not in his darkest hours, his emptiest days and most sleepless nights had he ever felt more alone than he was feeling now. John just lay on the couch and cried, cried even though he was quite sure there shouldn't be any tears left, not anymore, not after all those nights and all those days he had spent crying his heart out for Sherlock, his Sherlock.

There was no relieve. Not when he was awake, not when he was asleep. He was so tired, his whole body was tired. John hadn't slept in days. The last time he had let sleep take over, he had dreamed of Sherlock. Sherlock was still alive. He was still a we, he was still a they. Sherlock was still there, nothing more, that's all what John wanted. Sherlock to be alive. It was perfect, just perfect. But eventually John had woken up, left alone again. And it had just felt like Sherlock had died all over again and it had been even worse than before and now John was scared to fall asleep. So terribly scared.

He was still shaking, still crying, still lying there. At some point John got up. It was enough. Just enough. He had thought about this every single second, every heartbeat since Sherlock had left him here, but for some reason he had never really done it. Maybe he had hope. A little rest of hope. The little rest of hope that it wasn't true, that Sherlock was still there. But no. No. Sherlock was dead, just dead, and it was time to finally accept it. It was enough, just enough. John got off the couch, still crying silently. He went into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water. Then he grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills he still had from when he had sleeping troubles after returning from war. He opened the lid. There were still plenty of pills left. And slowly, slowly he just swallowed one after the other. Just one more, one more, one more, until the bottle was empty. And slowly he walked into Sherlock's bedroom and slowly he crawled under the sheets and slowly he closed his eyes. Sherlock. Just Sherlock. All he saw was Sherlock's face. That was all that mattered. And finally he let sleep take over. Forever.

It was dark. So dark. John woke up. Was he dead? Was he dreaming? He didn't know. No, he was still alive, he was still lying in Sherlock's bed. Didn't he take enough pills? He opened his eyes and heard the door click. He turned in bed so he could see the door, but barely managed, the power of the pills making every movement difficult. And there he stood. Dark curly hair. Long coat. Sherlock, his Sherlock. John tried to speak. But he couldn't. He had barely any power left.

And there he stood, Sherlock, in the door, the empty pill bottle in his hand, tears streaming down his face. And slowly Sherlock approached the bed, crying silently. John smiled at him, weakly, barely still alive. "Sher—Sherlock—", John whispered. "Shhh, don't talk.", Sherlock whispered back, tears streaming over his face as he crawled into bed next to John, pulling him into his arms. And then he couldn't cry silently anymore, and then Sherlock just cried out loud. "I'm so sorry, John. I'm so incredibly sorry! I never wanted this to happen, never!" And Sherlock just pulled John closer, holding him tight. He wanted to scream, wanted to do something, anything, but he knew nothing would matter. He wanted to call for help, but he knew it was too late, John couldn't be saved.
John lay there, in Sherlock's arms, happy somehow. It didn't matter that he was going to die, not really, because Sherlock was still alive. His Sherlock. And John looked up into Sherlock's eyes and he smiled. And Sherlock sat there, pressing John to his chest, crying, full of regret. And Sherlock whispered: "I'm so sorry, John… So sorry…" And Sherlock just cried. And then he said, then he admitted, voice barely above a whisper: "I love you, John…" And John smiled. "Happy Birthday!", Sherlock whispered and pressed a kiss to the top of John's head. And John smiled. And John was happy. And then John was dead.

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I ever had…

End

[A/N]: Alright, usually I'm not the type that would explain their fanfiction, but I just wanted to make sure it was clear: Yes, John died. Yes, it was John's birthday. No, Sherlock did not return, this was only John's dream, his last dream, the dream before he died, hence the line "And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I ever had" from the always beautiful song "Mad World" by Gary Jules.
However, I hope you enjoyed this (can I say that? Probably I shouldn't.) a bit at least and apologize for the pretty bad job I did at this. Anyways, I'll see you soon. Kisses.

P.S: I have a new schedule:
Monday: One new Supernatural fanfiction
Wednesday: Two new drabbles - one Supernatural, one Sherlock
Friday: One new Sherlock fanfiction
Any other fanfictions not fitting into those categories will be updated in between, but those listed above are the ones that will be up for sure. I hope all of you are okay with that :)