I Miss You
It started sometime after John's appointment with his therapist. He didn't even know it was possible. With a feeling of numbness, he went grocery shopping at the end of this appointment. The void in his heart didn't bother him. It didn't soothe him either. He didn't take comfort in knowing that despite not feeling anything, he was feeling loss. His therapist had suggested coming to terms that he is incapable of feeling nothing because the numbing sensation he felt since Sherlock's death was a feeling. She said it would help him deal with the grief. John knew she meant well but he couldn't bring himself to do as she suggested. It sounded bogus to him; something made up. He was capable of feeling nothing. He proved it as he went about his shopping staring into space, remembering the past eighteen months he spent in Sherlock's company. His arms and hands moved on their own as they bagged vegetables and fruits. His legs brought him to the check-out lines once he had gathered enough to last him at least a week. They walked him home while his arms hugged the bags of groceries tight to his person.
He stared at the lock as he pushed the key in and turned it. The door clicked open. John pushed it open with his toe and headed upstairs. The door to their apartment was opened. John had forgotten to lock it. He shrugged it off and kicked the door shut behind him. Tiredly, he trudged into the kitchen, dropped the bags onto the table, and opened the fridge. There was all sort of rotted things inside, some of them food and some of them animal parts. John stared at it. The smell was horrendous. They must have sat there for quite a while. John never had the heart to do anything after Sherlock jumped. His eyes caught on a small strand of hair in the back of the fridge. It was from the head that Sherlock kept a couple weeks back; the experiment where he collected data on saliva after death.
Suddenly a fire ignited within John. The fire burst through his lungs and shoved past his teeth to escape his mouth. With an enraged roar, John grabbed the shelves in the fridge and flung them behind him. They crashed onto the wooden floor, scratching it up. The contents each shelves held, scattered further into the living room. The carpet soaked up any blood that had escaped the animal parts. Containers clattered loudly against walls. John grabbed the last shelf, flung the contents onto the floor, and then proceeded to beat the shelf against the fridge. He couldn't help himself. There was a monstrous anger in him that had been gnawing at him since forever.
How could Sherlock be so selfish?
How could he drag John into his world of crazy and then dump him when he felt like it?
How was John supposed to go back to normalcy?
Why did Sherlock rescue him from loneliness then?
Sherlock isn't really dead, is he?
How could Sherlock bear to leave him?
How in the world did he think John was going to survive without him?
How could he be so selfish to take himself away from John?
He had no right!
John released the shelf. It slid to the floor next to him, bent and deformed. The flat grew quiet. Not a soul breathed as John sat before the fridge crying. His heart tightened painfully. He clawed at it as the questions cycled around his mind, demanding answers. But there was no one around to give him the answers. They can all try but none of them would know the correct answer. The only one who knew the answer had left John behind. He had abandoned him. In a single jump, Sherlock had thrust him back into an abyss of painfully numb solitude.
"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted John's grieving session. She had rushed up the stairs the moment she heard the commotion. Hesitantly, she looked about the flat. It was extremely messy and starting to smell. Mrs. Hudson rushed over to John, avoiding stepping on anything. "John, dear, are you alright?" She asked him. John ignored her. He lifted up his head to stare at the inside of the bare fridge. His limbs went limp and he sagged against the dinning table's leg. Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arms around his shoulder. She wept into his shoulder. Her heart tugged in worry for John. She wept for the survivor of a tight knit duo. She wept for John's sadness. Most of all, she wept for Sherlock. Leaving John behind was probably the most painful thing he had to do.
"Mrs. Hudson," John whispered.
"Yes?" Mrs. Hudson lifted her face off his shoulder.
"Why did Sherlock jump?" John asked in a monotone voice.
"… I don't know…" Mrs. Hudson admitted. In a flurry movement, John stood up. He rushed out of the kitchen and into the living room. He threw himself down on Sherlock's couch. Mrs. Hudson followed him. John breathed in the smell of leather and Sherlock's natural musk. After years of sleeping on it, the couch had retained large amounts of the man's scent.
"John—"
"No!" John shot up suddenly. "It doesn't make sense! Sherlock would never take his life! He's too much of a narcissist to do so! It doesn't make sense!"
Mrs. Hudson sighed. She sat down next to him gingerly. Slowly she took his hand in hers. "Listen to me John. Don't believe what the papers say about Sherlock. He was not a fraud. He was truly a brilliant man with a different view of the world. Sherlock is real."
John snorted. He knew Sherlock was real. Sherlock was as real as the sun that rises every morning at six. Never once did he doubt that Sherlock was a fraud. That's why it didn't make sense to him. Why would Sherlock jump?
Quietly he pulled away from Mrs. Hudson. He lay back down on the couch. He grabbed Sherlock's blue bath robe that was hung over the arm rest and used it as a blanket. "I want to sleep… Please…" He begged.
Mrs. Hudson patted his leg. "Of course, dear. I'll be downstairs if you need me." She closed the door on her way out.
John closed his eyes. "Sherlock…"
JOHNLOCK
He was awakened by a screeching violin sound. It wasn't a horrible sound. It was actually quite normal for a violin to screech like that. However, it didn't mean it wasn't annoying. He furrowed his brow as it got louder and began to form music. It was one of the classics; something he forgot the name to. Beyond annoyed, he turned away from the couch's backrest and swung himself up into a sitting position. He was ready to give whoever the hell it was that broke into his flat and played Sherlock's violin hell. But he stopped in his tracks when he saw who it was. Standing in front of him was Sherlock. The man was in his pajamas, bath robe included, holding the violin between his shoulder and chin. The bow was raised and moving as he played the melody. John stared in disbelief. Sherlock locked eyes with him and smiled. The melody became softer, closer to a lullaby. They continued to stare at each other as Sherlock played. John had to remind himself to breathe as he listened to Sherlock's lullaby.
When the song ended, Sherlock released the violin from his shoulder. He gave John a full blown smile.
"Missed me?" He asked.
"… Sherlock… you died!" John exclaimed. Sherlock chuckled.
"Do you really believe that? Did you really believe I would take my own life?" He asked as if offended immensely. John didn't know what to say. He opted to continue to stare. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He placed his violin back in its case and sat down in John's chair.
"Think about it John." He said. "A genius such as I. Someone who can see past the naked eye and deduce anything in the world suddenly takes his life. Does that seem plausible?"
"… No… you're too smart and aware to think suicide is an escape." John answered.
"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"You're narcissistic, rude, and infuriating but you would never be stupid enough to do what ordinary people do. You find it boring. Hell, you find breathing boring. If it didn't keep you alive you'd have stopped breathing all together. Never once had I thought you'd take your own life. Not even when you jumped in front my eyes." John had by now slid off the couch and was sitting at Sherlock's feet. Unashamedly, he rested his head on Sherlock's lap. Surprising, the detective allowed him. John closed his eyes and breathed in Sherlock's scent. It was minty with an underlying scent of husk. How he loved that smell. John began to feel like everything was ok again. Sherlock, unusually, began petting his hair.
"You're starting to think like me. I'm impressed and so proud." Sherlock whispered in his ear. John giggled, for a lack of a better word.
"I didn't spend the last eighteen months starring off into space." John whispered back.
"Impressive," Sherlock hummed. John yawned against his will. Sherlock chuckled. "Go back to sleep. It's still late."
"No," John grabbed onto Sherlock's bathrobe. "I don't want you to go yet." He whimpered.
"Don't worry; I'll still be here when you wake up." Sherlock said.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Quickly and much more peacefully, John slipped back into sleep.
JOHNLOCK
Sherlock lied. When John awoke, he was lying on the couch, with Sherlock's robe draped over his person. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John checked. He wasn't in the kitchen doing some weird experiment. He wasn't upstairs in John's room, sneaking a peek at his belongings, and he wasn't downstairs bugging Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had left the flat all together. John felt peeved. However, he didn't seethe. Sherlock was bound to turn up during the day demanding John drop everything and follow him into the jaws of death once again. Instead, he brushed his teeth and headed back downstairs to have tea with Mrs. Hudson. She eyed him as he sat down and opened up the morning paper. He read the front article as he poured himself some tea and sipped at it quietly. He didn't notice her interest until she set her cup down and cleared her throat loudly. John looked up slightly surprised and curious.
"Mrs. Hudson, you alright?" He asked her. She arched a brow at him.
"I should ask you that question." Mrs. Hudson answered. John furrowed his eyebrows. "You made quite a scene last night."
"… I'm sorry…" John apologized in a quiet voice.
She shook her head. "No need to apologize. I understand how much it hurts, especially the grief of losing someone that you cared deeply for. Just this once, I went back upstairs after you fell asleep to clean up the mess and place your groceries in the fridge."
If she hadn't said it, John wouldn't have noticed the flat had been cleaned. He was so used to ignoring the contents that lay around inconspicuously. He learned early on that if he didn't pay attention to Sherlock's things then he would be less inclined to throw himself out the window.
He smiled politely at her.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He responded just as politely. She took a sip of her tea.
"It's good to see you have calmed some. How do you feel today? Is the grief manageable?" She asked. John cocked his head in confusion.
"I'm great, thank you… I'm sorry… grief?" He dared to ask. Mrs. Hudson resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"Don't make me say it, dear. You know it'll only hurt." She hinted at the grief that she was talking about. John grew even more confused.
"… Ok…" He looked at the clock. It was close to eleven. Sherlock has yet to be seen for the day. He normally didn't leave the flat for long periods of time unless it was a case. John knew it wasn't a case. He would have woken John if it was. John drank the rest of his tea and folded up the morning paper. He turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Do you know when Sherlock's coming back?"
Mrs. Hudson jerked her head up. Her eyes were wide with fearful confusion. Hurriedly, she rushed over to him and felt his forehead.
"Dear, are you running a fever? Are you feeling any disorientation?" She asked him worriedly. John pulled away from her and stood.
"I guess you wouldn't know either. When he comes home, can you tell him to come upstairs immediately? I need to talk to him." John smiled softly. She looked haunted as he bypassed her and jogged up the stairs. John headed for the kitchen. This time as he walked around the flat, he took a good look. True to her words, Mrs. Hudson had cleaned up the mess. She picked up all the animal parts and the fridge shelves. She even managed to make the blood stains on the carpet invisible. They were still there though. Blood stains never really wash away unless you burned the item beyond recognition. John muttered another thanks to Mrs. Hudson before he opened the fridge. All his groceries were placed inside, without the bag, and in an organized pattern. Vegetables were on top, fruits on the bottom, and meat in the freezer.
Opting for a light breakfast, John grabbed an apple and bit into it. Slowly, he made his way to his chair. He slumped into it with a sigh. Despite having a restful sleep with Sherlock by his side, he was still feeling tired. Perhaps the stress of living without Sherlock was catching up to him now that he didn't have to live without Sherlock. John didn't mind though. It was small price to pay to have Sherlock back with him again. He was happy and that was all that matter. He took another bite of the apple with a small smile. After another bite, John picked up his laptop and opened up his blog. He brought up a new post, ready to share the news with the world.
"Hey, John," Sherlock greeted him suddenly. John turned his head towards the window. Sherlock was perched on top of it with his elbows supporting most of his weight. With a concentrated expression, Sherlock hoisted himself up and into the room. He closed the window and pulled the blinds shut. John watched as Sherlock traveled over to the door and shut it as well. He turned on the lights.
"Any reason you came in through the window?" John turned back to his laptop. He typed in the title: SHERLOCK ALIVE!
"Didn't want anyone to see me," Sherlock said as he discarded his scarf and his coat.
"Why?" John asked, distracted by his eager to share with the world that Sherlock was alive. Sherlock didn't answer right away. Instead he walked around the flat for a bit. He peeked into the fridge, cursed, and then took a look at the wall. The yellow smiley face was still there, as were the bullet holes. He smiled at that and muttered something that sounded like approval. He turned away in search of something on top of the fireplace. He made a lot of noise sifting through the clutter that called the fireplace home. John sighed and looked up annoyed. At first, Sherlock wasn't bothering him but he was starting to get annoying.
"What are you looking for?" John asked.
"My friend," Sherlock answered back quickly. He picked up a pile of folders, frowned, and dumped them back onto their original spot.
"Your skull is doing time in that drawer." John pointed to the desk. Sherlock practically jumped on the desk. He pulled the drawers open and cheered when he found the skull. He took it out and placed it back on the fireplace. He nodded his head.
"You still haven't answered my question." John said as he continued typing his post.
"Which is?" Sherlock asked.
"Why didn't you want anyone to see you?"
"Oh!" Sherlock whirled around and was by John's side in an instant. He snatched John's laptop out of his lap and deleted the post. Without care, he slammed it shut and threw it onto the floor.
"Hey! Sherlock! Careful!" John jumped out of his chair to inspect his laptop. "What in the bloody hell was that for?"
"I can't have you blogging about me being alive." Sherlock flopped down onto his couch. He pulled off his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt. John laid the laptop down on the desk carefully and then turned to look at Sherlock with a look that screamed he didn't understand.
"Why not?" John asked. Sherlock groaned.
"Oh for god's sake! You were doing so great yesterday too! Don't turn back now, John! Don't become boring again!" Sherlock whined. John glared at him. He may be happy the man is alive but it didn't mean he was ok with being insulted.
"Would you just explain?"
"Fine! If you hate using your brain so much; it'll rot if you don't use it." Sherlock muttered.
"Explain!" John spoke louder to keep Sherlock focused.
"Alright, alright," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I faked my death."
"That I know."
"Good, at least I don't have to explain that to you. I faked my death because I need to take down Moriarty's network. He had people positioned, ready to snipe you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I have to find them before they make another attempt. These people are extremely devoted to Moriarty, even after death." Sherlock said.
"So that's why you can't have people knowing you're alive." John concluded. Then his eyes widened. "Oh no! I asked Mrs. Hudson where you were today!" He shrieked.
"I should have explained the situation to you last night before you fell asleep. That was a mistake of mine. However, it's fine. She'll just chalk it up to you suffering too much grief from losing me." Sherlock said. John arched an eyebrow.
"What makes you think that I was suffering immensely from your death?" He challenged Sherlock.
"The apartment was a mess when I came back last night. There were animal parts all over the place. I had wished you didn't treat them as garbage after I left. Apparently you didn't seem to understand that part. Anyway, the fridge shelves were all over the place. There were containers resting against walls and you were sleeping with my bathrobe. I believe that concludes that you were indeed suffering from losing me. Unless you always had a habit for violent outbursts and cuddling with my bathrobe, which I know you don't because we lived together for the last eighteen months. If you ever did have such habits, you would have bound to slip up once or twice during our partnership." Sherlock took a breath.
"…Ok." John accepted his explanation. He knew he lost when he lost. He wasn't a sore loser. Instead he simply sat down next to Sherlock and much like a woman, rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's right arm. To his surprise, Sherlock allowed him. The detective sat back against the couch. He extracted his arm out of John's hug to wrap it around John's shoulder. John was ok with it. He snuggled against Sherlock's chest, listening to the man breathe.
JOHNLOCK
The next time John saw Sherlock was when he was on his way to his therapist appointment. Sherlock had left the flat, that day when he revealed his plan to John, after a couple of hours of watching the television with John. John allowed him to watch the trash programs that Sherlock loved to rage at. Sherlock didn't do much raging though. He had a cover to keep. Instead he growled at the screen whenever he had something to say. John laughed each time. Their time was cut short when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door though. Sherlock had given John a good bye hug and jumped out the window. That was the last time John saw of him.
Until he caught a cab outside of the apartment, that is. When he slid into the backseat, Sherlock was there. The detective was dressed in his signature black trench coat and navy blue scarf. Sherlock gave him a small smile. John looked anywhere but at him for a few minutes before settling. He turned to the driver and gave him the address. The cab pulled away from Baker Street. John turned back to Sherlock.
"What are you doing here?" He asked him.
"You have your appointment today." Sherlock stated.
"Yes," John wasn't getting what Sherlock was telling him.
"Psychologists are trained to look for deception, unusual behaviors, and disturbances to the human psyche." Sherlock said. John narrowed his eyes at him.
"You think my therapist will be able to tell that you're alive by observing me." He said.
"Correct," Sherlock answered back.
"I'm not that stupid, Sherlock. I won't let her see that through me." John protested.
"It's not a matter of whether you will let her see it. It's a matter of her manipulating you into letting her see it." Sherlock suggested.
"… Then what do you suggest?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him pointedly. It was an unnerving look. The detective's eyes didn't even waver as he stared. He didn't even blink. "… You want me to not go to my appointment." John concluded after seconds of hesitating.
"I always knew you had potential." Sherlock smiled at him.
"You really think she has that kind of influence over me?" John asked him.
"No, but just to be safe," Sherlock answered.
"When were you all about safe?" John snorted.
"When Moriarty began commanding his men from the grave." Sherlock shot back.
"… Driver, change of plans, just drop me off at the next corner." John called out to the cabbie. The man didn't say anything. He just turned the corner, stopped, and looked at John through the mirror. John shimmied forward as Sherlock exited the cab dramatically as usual. "How much do I owe ya?" He asked the cabbie. The cabbie listed a number and John paid him. He exited the cab and watched it speed off. He turned to Sherlock, who had walked into an alleyway.
"Sherlock, where are you going?" He ran after him. Sherlock didn't turn around. Only when they were out of view did he turn. He grabbed onto John's arm and pushed him against the wall. He dipped his nose into John's neck and breathed in deeply. He moaned in the back of his throat as John's scent hit his senses full on.
"I know this is horrible of me; to deny you what you need but it's for the greater good. I'm sorry, John." He said in a hushed voice. John smiled softly at him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders.
"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm fine. Now that I know you're alive, I'm fine." John reassured him.
Sherlock pulled him into a tight hug. "Thank you, John." He croaked, uncomfortable with saying thank you.
John patted his shoulders. "No problem, now go before someone sees you." John suggested once he saw several people walk by and look into the alleyway. It'd be their death sentence if someone happened to recognize Sherlock. He wasn't exactly inconspicuous, even if he had gone incognito. Sherlock pulled away a bit, pecked him lightly on the lips, and smiled.
"I'll see you soon. Wait for me." He kissed him once more on the lips before pulling away completely. John already missed his warmth. It was so reassuring. He wanted to reach out and tug him back into an embrace. But he refrained. Sherlock's safety was top priority and some people were beginning to notice.
"Go," John urged him by pushing him lightly towards the street. Sherlock smirked at him.
"Wait for me." He said once more.
"Always," John answered just before Sherlock dashed out into the streets, blending in as naturally as standing out occurred to him. John watched him go. He stood at the corner of the alley, leaning against the building, watching Sherlock's back disappear the farther away he walked. John sighed. He craved for the day he can show the world that Sherlock wasn't a fraud. Sherlock was alive and he was a genius.
JOHNLOCK
Three weeks pass without a sight of Sherlock. He calls constantly, mostly at night, when Mrs. Hudson is asleep. They talk for hours, chatting about nothing to their past cases to Sherlock teaching him how to think like him. John desired a chance to see Sherlock in person. Just talking on the phone didn't help ease his need for the detective. However he made do with what he got. Sherlock was in a tough position with a tough and dangerous mission to accomplish. Too much contact, especially in person, would destroy everything that Sherlock had achieved. John didn't know how much Sherlock had achieved. They never talked about it. Well, more like Sherlock never talked about it. He refused to discuss the matter with John. He said it was too dangerous. John was insulted, naturally, but he didn't push. He reminded himself that he is considered lucky that Sherlock shared with him the fact that he wasn't dead, he was just playing possum.
John was more or less content with their arrangement. He only wished it would get better with his therapist not calling him on a Sunday to ask about his three missed appointments. John had been avoiding her since Sherlock announced his concern with her manipulating him for information. Sherlock had once said, during their phone calls, that anyone could be Moriarty's toys. Even Sherlock didn't know every single one of them. So John took the natural approach: stop going to sessions. It was working fine until he got a phone call from an unknown cell number. And stupid as he was at the moment, he picked up. Some may say, maybe he thought it was Sherlock but he knew it wasn't. Sherlock never called with the same phone twice. He dumped a phone immediately after he used it. People can call John insane or crazy but despite not having any indications that it was indeed Sherlock, John knew it was Sherlock. There was always something about the numbers that Sherlock used that reminded him of the eccentric and infuriating detective.
So, stupidly, he picked up and it was his therapist on the other line. He entertained the idea of hanging up on her but that would just spark further concern and interest. He didn't need her any more involved than she already was. So he stayed on the line and listened to her voice her concern over him missing three appointments when he was dealing with the grief of losing a very dear friend. John wanted to laugh in her face. He wanted to shout that he wasn't dealing with anything anymore. It was hard to keep it under control. He did anyway.
"Thank you for your concern but I don't need your help anymore." John said. He smacked himself mentally afterwards. That was so cliché of him. Almost all those who do need help said that to stop people from helping them.
"John, you don't understand." His therapist countered. "Grief may seem simple. You're depressed over losing a loved one and then you deal with it after a long period of adapting to the loss but that's not all there is to it. There are steps, procedures you have to go through in order to accept that it's going to be ok. John, come in tomorrow for a session. I'm worried about you." She pleaded.
John sighed. "I'm fine, thank you. I don't need another session. Thank you for your concern but good bye." He hung up immediately.
Seconds later his phone rang again. John took a look at the number. It was Sherlock. John answered right away.
"It's a little early for you to be calling. It's only mid afternoon." John said with a smile.
Sherlock chuckled on the other end. "How did you know it was me?"
"I guess I'm turning into you. Your lessons are paying off." John reclined himself back onto Sherlock's couch. He rested his arm behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.
Good thing Sherlock never shot at it… He thought randomly.
"That's no good. I can't have you turning into me now. Sure, you'd be easier to talk to and whatnot but I didn't choose you so you can be me. I chose you because you're you." Sherlock joked. For once, it was a successful joke. John laughed.
"Well, if I ever wake up to find I have grown taller, paler, and have black hair I shall seek immediate assistance." John played along.
"From whom?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know yet. I'll get back to you on that." John said in a sarcastically serious tone. Sherlock chuckled.
"I called because I know that therapist called you just now." Sherlock changed the subject abruptly.
"She did." John accepted the subject change. It wasn't unusual anymore.
"She wanted you to go back to therapy. She suggested that you're not as well as you thought you are." Sherlock continued to talk.
"She did." John repeated himself.
"You told her you didn't need her help. You were better. She insisted on explaining what grief is to you, and then you told her firmly you don't need her and hung up." Sherlock finished his deduction.
"I did, she did, and I did. Sometimes I think you bugged my phone but then I figured you thought about all sorts of scenarios before seeing that one as the most logical." John did a little deducing of his own.
"Very good, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock purred. John giggled.
"Thank you," John accepted the compliment happily. "Here's a little more to impress you further. Why are you calling if you already knew that I rejected her? There is no point to you calling. If you simply wanted to chat then you would have called at your usual time but no, you called mid afternoon when people are moving about the most."
"Very impressive indeed," Sherlock purred once more. "I had to make sure." He said simply.
John laughed. He clutched his stomach and laughed. Sherlock remained silent on the other end, possibly pouting.
"Are you done?" He asked after a moment of silence.
"Yes," John admitted. He really wasn't but for Sherlock's sake, he stopped laughing, no matter how tight he had to wound his stomach to achieve it.
"So, how have your days been going?" John asked.
"Fine, boring, boring, and boring!" Sherlock shouted suddenly.
"Well, hang in there; think about the days when we can go back to solving interesting mysteries that are at least a seven." John couldn't help but tease him a little bit. Sherlock hummed on the other end.
"You're changing, Dr. Watson. I don't remember you being so funny." Sherlock joked.
"Well, to be fair, you have been quite a jokester yourself." John turned onto his side to look at the fireplace. His eyes landed on the skull. He hadn't moved it when Sherlock placed it back where it belonged. It was mostly out of respect for Sherlock then it was of his own preference. If he had it his way, that skull would be buried with wherever its body was so it can rest in peace like any normal person. However, Sherlock wanted it there and John didn't have a problem with it. John stared at it as he listened to Sherlock babble on about something he saw on the streets and how he found it odd. John loved hearing him talk.
JOHNLOCK
It seems that when his therapist called him, it was the domino that tipped over all the other dominos. Several days later Lestrade showed up at 221B Baker Street with a concerned look. Mrs. Hudson had let him in. She led him upstairs to Sherlock's flat. John had the door closed and locked. It wasn't like he was doing anything secretive. He was simply sitting in his chair and reading a mystery novel he found lying underneath Sherlock's couch. He found it while cleaning out the dust that had gathered during his depressing days. The day had been going slow so he decided to read the book. It was quite interesting. Not as interesting as Sherlock solving a crime, but interesting enough to keep him interested. John locked the door because Sherlock might show up any moment. He might climb through the window with a smile. John didn't want anyone walking in when that happened.
He turned a page in the book just as Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. He heard her walk up the stairs. He heard her talking. He wasn't expecting her to knock on his door though. Quietly, he marked his page and placed the book down. Just as quiet, he walked over to the door and opened it. Standing on the other side was indeed Mrs. Hudson. She had a small sad smile on her face. Mrs. Hudson never really smiled after Sherlock's stunt. She wasn't as fiery as she used to be either. Behind her was Lestrade. In his hands were two Styrofoam lunch boxes and hanging off his arm was a bag that held a tray with two cups of coffee on it. He also produced a small sad smile.
"Do you mind if we have lunch together?" He asked John. It was unusual. Sherlock would have used the word "unnatural" for what Lestrade was doing. Lestrade, for as long as John as known him, had never asked for John to join him for lunch or any other meal. It was always case shows up, call Sherlock, John shows up with Sherlock, Sherlock and John solve case, Lestrade says thank you slightly unwillingly, and then they all go their separate ways. John didn't question or doubt that Lestrade was also one of Sherlock's "few to none" friends. Despite what the two might think and act towards one another, John can tell there's a bond there. It was as strong as the bond John had with Sherlock but it was there.
That's why, even though it was unusual, John welcomed Lestrade into the flat. He walked in with a slightly bigger smile that hinted at some kind of victory. John may have read it wrong though. He was still training. Mrs. Hudson excused herself once Lestrade set the food and coffee onto the kitchen table. He looked around it and peeked into the fridge. He whistled low to show he was impressed.
"I didn't think the kitchen could ever look like this." He said. John chuckled.
"Me either, but apparently all it needed was a good clean-up and no more bleeding organs." John took a seat at the table. Lestrade closed the fridge's door and joined him at the table. He opened up the lunch boxes to reveal Chinese food.
John's stomach growled at the sweet smell of marinated pork. Lestrade handed him one box and a plastic fork.
"I figured you'd be hungry." He said.
"You figured right." John took a bite into the pork. It was beyond delicious. It's smooth texture and soft skin was heaven to his taste buds. After he swallowed he was handed a cup of iced black coffee. He shook it around to get the sugar to spread before taking a sip. As he drank, John observed Lestrade. The man didn't seem to be there on official detective business. He wouldn't be. It would make no sense. Sherlock wasn't around anymore. The press had labeled him a fraud. Surely, Lestrade would think twice before asking John, who is without Sherlock, to consult on a case. John took a closer look at him. Lestrade was casually eating out of the lunch box. He took big bites and long chews before swallowing. There wasn't any sign of stress. John took another bite as he watched Lestrade eat.
Lestrade's cell rang sometime in between their silent eating. He took it out, read a text, and then placed it onto the table. John's eyes zeroed in on the phone. That was a new development. The gears in his mind began to turn. It seems Sherlock's lessons have paid off after all.
"So, John," Lestrade placed his fork down and took a sip of his coffee, "what have you been up to?"
"Nothing much, I found work at a hospital… again. This time I managed to keep it." John said.
"That's nice." Lestrade said it in weird tone. He stared at John, as if not really seeing John but seeing something else. John furrowed his eyebrows at him.
"What about you?" John proceeded with the conversation. He wasn't sure what Lestrade's behavior and personal effects were telling him yet. He needed more time. Lestrade waved dismissively at him and curled his upper lip.
"It's been hectic now that Sherlock's not here." Right after he said that, Lestrade froze. Slowly he turned to John with wide expectant eyes. John wasn't sure what he was expecting him to do. Did he expect him to shriek and sizzle away into a pile of ash via spontaneous combustion? John rolled his eyes and smiled at Lestrade.
"You don't have to walk on wires around me, Greg. I'm fine." John said. Lestrade looked unconvinced but continued anyway.
"Anyway, the precinct had been hectic since Sherlock jumped. I don't even know what to do with the cases that make me tear my hair out." Lestrade groaned. John chuckled. He leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his coffee. He placed it down and crossed his arms.
He stared at Lestrade. Lestrade didn't seem to notice. He continued to eat.
"Is there a reason you came here, Greg?" John asked him out of the blue. Lestrade looked up.
"Can't a guy have lunch with his friend?"
"I didn't know we were friends." John countered.
"Well, we are." Lestrade smiled.
"… You have to understand my concern; never once before had you ever invited me or Sherlock to lunch or anywhere for that matter. Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you show up at my flat asking to have lunch with me. I love the food and the coffee but that doesn't settle the fact that what you're doing in unnatural. Not to mention you also have your phone out on the table where you can easily access it if you need to. You're waiting for a text or a phone call. It must be important if you need easy access to it. I know you're not here for consultation so you can forget trying to use that on me. What are you here for, Lestrade?" John said.
Lestrade widened his eyes. "You're turning into Sherlock, John. That's quite impressive. Perhaps I should consult you on cases. Lord knows I need it."
"Don't change the subject. Why are you here?" John glared at him.
Lestrade sighed. He drank the rest of his coffee and pocketed his phone. John arched a brow at that move. It seems he made Lestrade uncomfortable.
Good. Let him be uncomfortable.
"Mrs. Hudson called me." Lestrade said finally.
"What?"
"She originally tried to reach Mycroft but you know that guy. He's always shady and mysterious when it comes to interacting with the world. He never answered her back so she came looking for me. Mrs. Hudson told me that you were acting strange, never really talking to people, and staying home most of the time with the door locked and the curtains pulled shut. She thinks that you're falling deeper and deeper into depression."
"What does that have to do with you?"
"It doesn't but as a friend I figured I should come here and make sure you aren't. We both agreed it was for the best since I'm more experienced with the proceedings of dealing with being left behind by the dead." Lestrade gave him a sad smile. John felt anger bubble inside him.
First it was that stupid therapist and now it was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. None of them would leave him alone. Every single one of them was butting into his life because they think he's dealing with grief. Couldn't they see that John was fine? Couldn't they see that John didn't need help? Sure he couldn't tell them that Sherlock was alive but it didn't mean they had to nag him every chance they got. John was not going to do what he didn't need to do. All he needed to do was wait for Sherlock and give him the emotional support he needs to get through with his mission. All these other people, despite meaning good, were getting in the way.
"I don't need any help, Lestrade. And I definitely don't need you to check up on me. I am doing quite well." John smiled.
"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes."
"… Alright…" Lestrade took a look at his watch. His phone rang two seconds later. He stared at his pocket.
"You should get it." John said as he continued eating. Lestrade muttered an "excuse me" before walking into the living room to answer the call. John couldn't hear his whispering but he could tell it was urgent. Lestrade was practically straining himself to not yell at whoever was on the other line.
"I need to go." Lestrade announced after his phone call ended. John waved him away without looking.
"Thank you for stopping by." John muttered.
"What hospital are you working at?" Lestrade asked as he packed up his lunch box, and grabbed his coffee.
"St. Bartholomew's," John answered.
"The one where Sherlock jumped?" Lestrade looked scandalized for some reason. John nodded.
"Alright, I'll stop by sometime then," Lestrade headed down the stairs. John looked at the door. He left it open.
"God damn it," John stood up and closed the door before locking it.
JOHNLOCK
Sherlock tended to show up in person when John was having an extremely bad day. Normally John would growl and snarl at anyone who came close to him on those days but Sherlock was never on the receiving end of those horrible expressions. No matter how stressful his day had been, John always placed on a happy face for Sherlock. He was always happy to see Sherlock, especially when it's in person. Those moments were becoming rare since Sherlock had traveled overseas to chase after Moriarty's men.
On a Thursday evening, John had trudged into the flat tired to the bone. The day at the hospital had been chaotic. Someone had come into the ER with a large steel pipe stuck through his shoulder. It was a construction accident. Apparently the victim was one of those people who shouted in anger and hissed at everyone when they were in pain or in danger of dying. John had tried to get him to allow him to give him anesthetic for the pain but the man made it difficult by thrashing around and spit profanities in John's face. Eventually John had grabbed him, hoping to stop him from fretting. The man punched him in the nose with his other hand. John stumbled back and crashed through the curtain where several nurses rushed to his aid. Doctors rushed into the isolated area and wrestled the man down before sticking the needle into him.
John had been escorted to a different area so a nurse can stop the bleeding. She insisted a doctor take a look at his nose but he refused it. He was a doctor and he inspected it while she was drying the blood. It wasn't broken, just going to swell the next day. She wasn't happy about it but left him to it. He was technically a doctor. The rest of the day seemed to go downhill after that. A child with a nasty rash came in with her parents. Her parents were screaming about the things that she was allergic and swearing they didn't feed it to her. She was crying her eyes out and every time John came near her she screamed and scratched his arm once. Her parents apologized but it didn't stop the burning sensation he felt on his arm the rest of the day. He almost cheered when someone approached him and said they'll take over. He practically ran to the next patient.
By the end of the day, John had red scratch marks on his arm, a swollen nose, and a grumpy attitude. Someone found it appropriate to take his sandwich from the fridge and eat it. That was the last straw for John. He walked home while stomping his feet and slammed the door shut upon entering. He was ready to scream at the top of his lungs. He wasn't ready or expecting to hear a soft melody flooding through the flat. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to listen to it carefully. It was a violin. It was Sherlock's violin. Hurriedly, he ran up the stairs, skipping steps as he went, and barged through the door. The door swung open easily, taking him with it. He swayed and crashed into the wall before straightening himself. He looked around.
Standing in the center of the living room was Sherlock. He was dressed in a navy blue dress shirt, black slacks, and his hair was tousled like he styled it that way. The violin was pressed firmly against his shoulder and he played with vigor. Gently, he swayed to the music he was producing. Sherlock looked at him as John attempted to fix his rumpled clothing. Subconsciously, John pulled down his sleeve, hoping to cover the scratch marks.
"Sherlock," John called to him. Sherlock smiled.
"Hello John," Sherlock replied.
"What are you doing?" John closed the door and turned to give Sherlock a stern look. "What if Mrs. Hudson hears you? She knows I can't play the violin."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson is not home." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.
John sighed. He dropped his coat onto the couch and threw himself onto it. He stretched out his legs and pressed his toes against the arm rest. John reached his arms back over his head and stretched much like a cat.
"… Hard day at work?" Sherlock asked after a moment. John groaned and nodded.
"Yes, very," he said.
"It seems you have come in contact with some rather horrible people. A man punched you in the nose and a woman scratched you in the arm." Sherlock stopped playing and was crouching next to the couch. He had John's arm in his hands to inspect. John sighed.
"Sometimes I think this is worse than the battle field." He commented.
"You're delusional." Sherlock dropped his arm and moved on to look at his nose. John stared at him. Sherlock hadn't changed much since he decided become a ghost and hunt down shady men. He was still a skinny twig that stood high above John's head. His hair was still shaggy and messy. Sherlock's style was still casual formal. There might have been slight differences to Sherlock but John couldn't see it. He leaned in closer to get that whiff of minty husk. Sherlock's scent was becoming intoxicating. Perhaps it's because his scent is beginning to disappear from the flat. Soon it would smell nothing like Sherlock and all like John. John didn't want to smell like himself. He wanted to smell like Sherlock.
Working on instinct, John grabbed onto Sherlock's shirt and tugged him forward. He slipped his lips onto Sherlock's and pressed hard. Sherlock didn't even falter. He grabbed onto John's head and pulled him slightly off the couch. Their breaths mingled. No longer was John able to distinguish between which breath was his and which breath was Sherlock's. He reached up to twist his fingers into Sherlock's hair. It was smooth and warm. He twirled it around and then tugged. Sherlock released a groan. John moaned in appreciation. At that moment, he decided that his most favorite sound in the universe was the sound of Sherlock's lust being made known. Sherlock groaned once more when John wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him down onto the couch. He spread his legs to accommodate Sherlock's.
"I missed you." He whispered into Sherlock's ear as the detective attacked his neck with careful but passionate bites. Before Sherlock, John wasn't too into being bitten nor was he a biter. However Sherlock made biting feel like the sweet pleasurable taste before euphoria hits. John couldn't help but arch his back and purr like a cat when Sherlock nibbled on a meaty part of his neck. He sucked it into his mouth and sucked with vigor.
"Stop, you'll leave a hickey." John pleaded. Sherlock didn't pull away. He sucked harder. John moaned when Sherlock released the flesh with a pop and scraped his teeth down John's neck.
"It's been my intention from the beginning." Sherlock murmured. "I want everyone to know you're taken."
JOHNLOCK
"Well, I don't think that it's possible for a zebra to scale up a three story building." John balanced the phone on his right shoulder as he reached for the salt shaker with his left arm.
"I didn't think so either." Sherlock said on the other end. John laughed.
"Why would you think that anyway?" John asked. He shook some salt onto the omelet he was making. He took a whiff of it as the steam floated up into the ventilator.
Almost done
"I found zebra hairs on the bed and hooves on the outside wall near the ground." Sherlock said. John arched an eyebrow.
"So naturally you assumed a zebra climbed up a flat brick wall and rolled around on the bed before disappearing?" John wanted to laugh. He really did.
"No… maybe…" Sherlock hesitated to admit it was a possibility that he had been entertaining.
"What happened to that logical mind of yours? You would have called it rubbish if you heard that theory a year ago." John took out a plate and spooned the omelet onto it.
"Yeah, well, I think I deserve a moment of insanity. I think I earned it." Sherlock said.
"You earned it a long time ago." John took the plate to the table.
"What are you eating?" Sherlock asked.
"Omelet," John broke off a tiny piece and ate it.
"Boring," Sherlock pouted childishly.
"Well, when I eat something like scalding hot lava, I'll be sure to let you know." John chuckled.
"You do that." Sherlock chuckled as well.
A knock on the door drew John's attention. He leaned back into his chair to stare at it. He couldn't see through it. There wasn't a window installed either but he had a feeling he knew who it was. It was mostly Mrs. Hudson.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked when John remained silent. John stood up and headed for the door.
"Mrs. Hudson is knocking." John said. Sherlock fell silent naturally. He listened as John unlocked the lock and chain. He pulled it open. Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. John moved to let her in.
"Hey, Mrs. Hudson, what can I do for you?" He asked. She gave him the disappointed look that most mothers would give their children. It was a smile but not really.
"Did you forget you were going to take me to my doctor's appointment?" She asked.
"… Oh! Right! Your leg! I-um-give me a moment!" John looked left and right. He tried to find his coat in the mess that he had yet to clean. He was reluctant to clean it. It reminded him of Sherlock. He walked around, peeking under piles of papers, clothes, and books.
"It's alright dear," Mrs. Hudson walked over to his chair and sat down.
"Listen, I got to go. I promised Mrs. Hudson that I'd bring her to the doctor's." John told Sherlock.
"It's quite alright. I'll call some other time. Be safe, John." Sherlock said. There was a disappointed tone in his voice though.
"You too; call soon," John felt the disappointment as well. Perhaps he felt it even more than Sherlock. He pulled his phone away and pressed end call. Gently he laid it down on the desk.
"Who was that dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Oh, no one you know." John said.
"You mentioned me by name, dear," Mrs. Hudson smirked. "I'm pretty sure it's someone I know."
"Trust me, Mrs. Hudson; it's no one you know. Maybe I left it upstairs… I'll be right back." John headed for the stairs. His room was almost barren. He had moved most of his clothes downstairs to Sherlock's flat. His bedding officially littered the couch that Sherlock slept on. It didn't take long for John to notice that his coat was not in his room. It was most definitely downstairs. He turned away and closed the door before jogging downstairs. He returned to Mrs. Hudson standing by the desk looking at his phone. It didn't seem like she knew he was back. Quietly he stood by the door, observing her. He wasn't exactly angry with her looking at his phone. He knew that what he said made him suspicious. He expected her to feel the temptation to snoop. He didn't expect her to really do it and do it in such an obvious way. He couldn't see what she was looking at but he knew it was his call history.
Quietly he walked up a few stairs and then stomped his feet really loudly. There was a mutter of curses before he saw her place his phone down and then hurry to the chair. When she saw seated, John walked into the room. She smiled at him. It faltered a bit though. He pretended he didn't see it. It wasn't good to put an old woman on the spot, especially one that took such good care of him. Instead he smiled back.
"I can't find my coat…" He said simply.
"Oh, honey," Mrs. Hudson stood up, a little shaky in the knees. John rushed over to help her. "It's hanging downstairs on the closet door knob." She said after he helped her steady herself. John looked at the stairs. He couldn't see the closet but he believed her. Gently he slapped his forehead.
"Oh my… how could I have forgotten?" He muttered more to himself.
"Perhaps your job is stressing you out." Mrs. Hudson patted his bicep. "Sometimes I can hear you muttering in your sleep when I walk by the door." She headed for the stairs. John didn't say anything. He followed her downstairs and grabbed his coat as they headed out the door. He knew that what she heard wasn't him muttering in his sleep. It was him talking to Sherlock. He wasn't sure if it was when they were having a phone conversation or when he sneaked into the apartment. However the fact that she thought he was sleeping and not talking to someone, suggested that it was during their phone conversations.
He called for a cab and opened the door for her. She climbed in with a soft thank you. John closed the door as Mrs. Hudson gave the address for the hospital that they'll be going to. John wasn't paying attention. Instead he looked out the window, hoping for that one percent chance that he'll see Sherlock standing in the alleys smiling at him. Sherlock had done that a few times; standing out of sight on the streets, waiting for John to pass by, so he can wave. They never exchanged words. It was too risky. Instead, Sherlock would wave and John would smile at him. Like that, a whole conversation had occurred. They exchanged love, trust, and comfort. It was only a three second exchange but so much was given between the two of them that John felt like it was a whole day that they had given to the other.
Unfortunately for him, Sherlock wasn't standing in any alley. They made it to the hospital without a single sighting of Sherlock. John was a little sad about it but he didn't let it show as he got out of the cab and held the door open for Mrs. Hudson. He looked up at the hospital's name.
"St, Bartholomew's?" He asked her as they walked to the doors.
"Yes, it's grown on me for some reason," Mrs. Hudson said with fondness.
"Right," John opened the door for her and walked her in. He smiled at the receptionist who looked at him with a bored expression. He asked her about her brother and she looked alarmed. He arched a brow. That was unusual. Mrs. Hudson led him up to the third floor and through several doors. He looked a little confused when she turned right instead of left. John stopped and stared at the directory.
"John?" Mrs. Hudson called.
"Why did you turn right?" He asked. The directory said their destination was left.
"Oh," Mrs. Hudson looked lost. She looked at John then she looked at the door. John turned to look at the door as well. It said "PSYCHIATRIC WARD".
"Mrs. Hudson are you—?" He asked but he wasn't sure what to ask of her. She looked conflicted.
"No, she's not." A new voice joined them. John turned around. Walking towards them was Lestrade and Mycroft. As usual Mycroft walked with an aura of power surrounding him. There wasn't the usual pleasant smile on his face though. There was a frown that spoke of stress, extreme stress. Lestrade had on a face of pity as he stared at John. John moved away from them when they approached him. Mrs. Hudson shuffled forward with a worried look.
"What's going on?" John asked in a panic.
"John, I'm sorry but it's for your own good." Mrs. Hudson said.
"What are you talking about?" He shrieked.
"You refused to see your therapist and you've been exhibiting strange behavior. John, we're doing this for your safety." Lestrade came forward. John backed away. He looked at the three people surrounding him. They never seemed threatening to him before. In fact they were the most normal people he's seen since Sherlock showed up in his life. However at that moment John felt like they were threatening him. When they took another step towards him, John turned and ran. He didn't know why. He didn't understand why they were taking him to a psychiatric ward. So he missed a few therapist appointments and then fired her as his therapist but that doesn't mean he was crazy. In fact, they were the crazy ones, trying to commit him into a psych ward.
John rounded the hallways and arrived back at the elevators. He couldn't see them but he knew they were looking for him. He heard them calling his name and asking him to "come out". Like hell he was doing that. He pressed the down button but when none of the doors opened, he pressed it again, again, again, and again. They didn't understand. He didn't expect them to understand. After all, Sherlock told him to keep it a secret. Sure it was suspicious that he was suddenly not grieving and moving on with his life but shouldn't they be happy about it? Instead, they decided he was crazy for not grieving for years before moving forward with his life. Just because they were still suffering doesn't mean that John had to suffer with them. They should be happy that he isn't wallowing in self-pity. But no, they wanted him to be just like them.
Lestrade came into view behind him. John saw his reflection off the panel for the buttons. He turned around. He expected the man to be holding a gun, possibly threaten him with death if he doesn't walk into the psych ward but there was nothing in the man's hands. Instead he raised them up into the air and walked slowly towards John.
"Look, John, I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help. You're suffering. We get that. I understand that you're trying to cope with the loss but this isn't healthy for you. It's not healthy for anyone." Lestrade spoke in a slow pace. John looked at him in confusion.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Just because I'm not suffering in grief like the rest of you doesn't mean that I'm crazy! I don't need help! I'm fine." John declared. He pressed himself against the wall and as slowly as he can, he moved away from the elevators and towards the stairs. If the elevators weren't going to help him then the stairs would. They always helped those who needed to run. Lestrade didn't seem to notice anything was wrong or maybe he did. John wasn't too sure. He wasn't paying attention to the man's body language. Somewhere within his mind, an image of Sherlock was most likely scolding him for pushing away the one skill that might get him out of the situation. It wasn't second nature to him though. He wasn't Sherlock. He couldn't analyze a person while fearing for his freedom. His second nature was to run.
John did just that. Once he reached the doors, he gripped onto the handle and then pushed with his back. It flew open and he turned, ready to run. He didn't get very far though. John ran straight into someone's chest and the person grabbed him. He looked up. It was Mycroft. John struggled against his hold.
"Let me go!" He shouted.
"Hush," Mycroft said before jamming a needle into his neck. John screamed at the pinching pain. He felt his muscles relax, betraying him as he fell against Mycroft's chest. Mycroft dropped the syringe and wrapped his arm around John. He lifted him up so he wouldn't slump to the floor. John tried to struggle but he couldn't. Whatever Mycroft shot into him was making him so relaxed that he was beginning to feel sleep pull at him. It beckoned him with a tempting dream. Despite not really asleep yet, John could hear Sherlock calling him. He saw a blur behind Mycroft, towering over him. The blur had brown hair and navy blob underneath it. It was Sherlock.
"Sherlock…"
The world before his eyes went dark.
JOHNLOCK
The world before his eyes spun as John returned to the land of the conscious. He tried to lift his head but it fell back onto the pillow beneath him. John turned his head to the side. He came face to face with a white door. In a panic, John lifted his arms. He screamed in pain when his arms pulled onto the handcuffs that were on his wrists. He looked down. He was chained to a hospital bed. He tried to lift his feet only to find they were in the same situation. The slight panic he felt increased into a frenzied panic. Without really thinking, he began to rock his body left and right, trying to get the restraints off him.
"Help! Somebody! Help!" John shouted.
The door opened immediately. In came a woman with black hair and grey eyes. She looked quite a bit like Sherlock. However where Sherlock was tall, she was short. John assessed her. She was a doctor, probably a psychiatrist since she didn't have stethoscope around her neck. Not to mention, he remembered distinctly Mrs. Hudson bringing him to the psych ward in St. Bartholomew. She smiled at him despite his glare. Quietly she pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. She crossed her legs and folded her hands on her thighs.
"Good morning, John," she greeted him.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Francis. I'm your psychiatrist." She said with a small smile.
"I'm not crazy." John declared immediately. She nodded.
"I know you're not. I never once thought you to be crazy." She assured him.
"Then why am I here?" John asked. He pulled at the restraints for emphasis. Dr. Francis dropped her smile. She looked at him straight in the eyes.
"You're not crazy, John, but you are dealing with grief." She said.
"For the last time, I'm not." John sighed dramatically.
"You believe Sherlock Holmes is still alive." Dr. Francis stated.
"…" John blinked at her.
"You think that he's on some kind of mission and you can't tell anyone that he's alive." Dr. Francis continued. Panic began to rise within John. That was supposed to be a secret. Sherlock went through all that trouble to keep in contact with John and now the secret was out. What would John tell Sherlock when some of Moriarty's men points a gun at the detective's head and blows it off?
"I don't know what you're talking about." John denied the statement. It was the best he could do at the moment.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Dr. Francis scolded. "John, Sherlock committed suicide about a year ago on top of this hospital. You have to accept that."
"… Of course, he jumped; it was in the papers." John smiled at her. It was a fake smile and he knew she knew it too. Dr. Francis stood up. She walked over to a table at the foot of his bed. It was one of those plastic white ones. She picked up a photograph. Dr. Francis turned to him. She flipped it over for him to see. The photograph was a snapshot of Sherlock's body in the morgue. He wasn't cut open. His wounds were cleaned and he was lying stark naked on a metal bed. The coroner stood at his side preparing the equipment he needed to do the autopsy.
"Look at this, John." She sat back down. John looked away. He didn't want to see that picture. He knew it wasn't Sherlock in that photo. He knew it was someone or something else but it still hurt to see it. The replacement looked so much like him. There was just too much of a resemblance for John to look at. He felt sick just knowing a photo like that existed. "Look at it."
Dr. Francis reached over him to stick the photo in his face. John, forgetting that he was restrained, attempted to reach up to slap her arm away. Instead the cuffs bit into his wrist painfully. A string of blood dripped onto the bed as he writhed around, trying to ease the pain. Dr. Francis dropped the picture onto the bed as she went to inspect his wound. It wasn't cut that deep, just a tiny flesh wound. She produced a band-aid out from her white coat's pocket and slapped it onto the wound as best as she can.
"I can't take the cuffs off. They labeled you dangerous. I want to prove them wrong but I can't do that without your help, John. Don't you want to be able to move around freely? It must be uncomfortable lying on the bed like that." Dr. Francis retrieved the photo from the bed. She took a look at it, pursed her lips in thought, and then dropped it back onto the bed. She leaned back into her chair. John laid back and stared at her.
"Why am I here?" He asked the one question he kept forgetting to ask.
"Your friends are concerned that you're dealing with the grief in an unhealthy way. I'm here to determine whether that's true and if it is, then I'm going help guide you back on track and through the grief." Dr. Francis smiled a little. John couldn't tell if it was fake or real. She was quite good at the smiling thing.
"I'm not going through grief." He stated.
"Denial is one of the stages." Dr. Francis said.
"I'm NOT going through grief!" He shouted at her. She didn't even flinch.
"Denial is one of the stages." She repeated herself. John returned to glaring at her. When she didn't move, John turned to look at the wall. It was childish but Dr. Francis was persistent. He didn't know what else to do. They remained like that for a while. Neither of them spoke. John stared at the wall, counting the tiles and tiny cracks that were probably made from previous patients. Dr. Francis sat beside him, patiently checking over his file and scribbling notes in it. He wasn't sure how much she knew about him at the moment. They talked for about five to ten minutes. Surely in such a short time span she couldn't have gotten to know him more than stranger getting to know another stranger on a line to get coffee. He was quite positive of it. Unless she was another version of Sherlock, then he was screwed. But… what were the chances of that; half of one to ten? Not even that much, the percentage was smaller than that.
He reassured himself that she knew nothing about him. She kept writing though. He could hear her pen scrape against the papers in his file. It only stopped occasionally, for about thirty seconds, before she wrote something else. He waited for the pen to stop permanently but she kept writing. His agitation grew so did his insecurity. He began questioning his reasoning. Sherlock had been teaching him quite a bit of stuff. He was confident that he was seventy percent accurate most times. However he began to question exactly how bad his luck was getting. Could it have been possible for him to bump into the one rarer than rare person who was like Sherlock? Near impossible… right?
He was ready to say no. John reluctantly turned around with an annoyed huff and puff. Dr. Francis had crossed her legs so she can rest the file on her knee. She was concentrated on what she was writing. He wasn't sure if she noticed he had turned towards her but he observed her. She was relaxed. It was obvious she didn't see him as a threat and she was in her element. If he didn't know he was in a hospital, he'd thought she was at home with a wine glass and finishing up on her work before heading to bed. Her hair shielded the left side of her face as she readjusted it to keep it away from the papers. Never once did she look at him, not even a split second glance. He continued to watch her. At one point she lifted her head, yawned to the ceiling, stretched her neck, and then went back to writing. She sighed once, tapped the pen on the paper, frowned, and then made an annoyed face.
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was a natural response. He wasn't sure why.
"How could you possible know so much about me?" John decided to just come out and ask her. Dr. Francis stopped writing. She looked up and blinked. Then she smiled.
"I don't know anything about you, John." She said.
"What do you mean you don't know anything about me? You've been writing in my file for at least half an hour!" John scowled. She blinked.
"I believe you're mistaken. I was not writing about you or in your file. I was writing a letter to my husband." She flipped the file around for him to see. It was really a letter to her husband. It started with the intimate words: Dear Thomas, the love of my life, I miss you.
John frowned.
"Why did you write 'I miss you'? Is he away on business or something and hasn't returned for awhile?" John asked. Dr. Francis smiled sadly.
"My husband died three years ago." She said. "He was mowed down by a bank robber who he was chasing."
"Your husband was a detective?"
"Yes, he was."
"… I'm sorry." John lowered his gaze. He felt that he understood her a bit more. He understood the feeling of losing someone you love. He understood that gut wrenching and heart stabbing feeling when the world had ripped a loved one away. It was the most horrible feeling. Slowly John looked back at her. She had returned to her writing.
"How did you deal with the pain?" He asked her more out of curiosity than concern. He was concerned, just not as concerned as he was curious.
"I went to therapy." She answered without looking up. "I was reluctant to go at first. As a therapist I insisted that I was handling it well. I didn't need someone else evaluating me when I could just evaluate myself." A sad smile appeared on her face.
"I don't mean to be rude but that's stupid." John said bluntly. She laughed.
"Of course it is… I went to therapy two times a week. She's a pretty good therapist; walked me through the grieving process, step by step, never tripping me or leaving me behind. Slowly I began to accept that Thomas was not coming back. He did his time on this Earth and has moved on. It wasn't my right to detain him any longer."
"How did it take?"
"About a year or so; some people take longer. There are five stages of grief; denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and then acceptance. Depending on the person it may take years to go through the stages or months. Some people go through the stages in order. There are those who jump around or do it backwards. Then there are extreme cases where the person doesn't have the ability to deal with the stages and as they go through the stages they develop creative but destructive ways to cope with the feeling of loss. It's rare but it happens more often than not. Cases like those need constant supervision. It also depends on who you have as your therapist. You pick the wrong therapist and you can be in grief for the rest of your life." Dr. Francis looked at her watch. She smiled at him.
"It appears our time's up. I have determined that you're not a danger. I'll have someone release you from confinement. You'll still have to stay in here for a couple of days. I can't do anything more for now." She stood up. John watched her put the chair back and head for the door. "Now that you're familiar with the process of dealing with grief, we can get started on dealing with it. I'll see you tomorrow, John. Get a good night sleep tonight."
"… Alright."
She smiled brightly, flashing him her pearly whites, before exiting the room.
He blinked. Wait… that wasn't a smile… that was a smirk…!
"That bitch!" He shouted.
A/N: Ok, this was meant to be extremely angst-y and supposed to make you bawl your eyes out but apparently my mood isn't cooperating with me right now. I'm far too happy. I just found out I will not have to go to summer school. I scored a 100 on my English Regents (NYC end of the year testing for high school students – like a state test but on multiple subjects). I also scored a 1630 on my SAT.
So you see, my mood isn't cooperating at the moment. So everyone gets a somewhat good ending. I might post the original ending up later when I'm not feeling so giddy.
As usual, tell me what you think. :D