AN :Just a little post fall drabble for fun. Although it was really sad to write. Oh well.
John woke up one morning full of an immense sadness, though it was not a new feeling. It was a feeling he had woken up with everyday since the fall. It didn't seem to matter what he did. Everything came back to that day, that moment. The moment he saw his best friend falling and falling and falling. It seemed like forever, he just kept going. Until he hit the ground. John remembered his heart, plummeting as Sherlock did until it too hit the ground. He remembered the pain. He tried to save him, but everyone told him it was too late, that Sherlock was gone. They told him that the only person he had ever truly loved was gone from his life forever. Everyone wanted him to say things, to express how he felt, but John didn't see the point in that. All John saw was people wanting to him to give in and say that Sherlock was a liar and a coward. They wanted him to believe that the man who had given him so much had been a fraud, that he'd led John on right from the start. Even the words had come right from Sherlocks mouth he didn't believe them. He would never believe them. "No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." Johns words echoed in his head. He remembered that day, the first day he really remembered in this mess of a life he was leading. He remembered meeting Sherlock, living with him in 221b, he remembered the fall and the funeral and everything else didn't matter. He went to his therapist once a week, and it continued to do him no good at all. He really didn't even know why he was going at all. All John wanted was to have his friend back, and that was never going to happen so he didn't see the point in any of it.
John waited everyday. He waited for Sherlock to come home. Everyone thought he was crazy because of it, but he knew, John knew that Sherlock couldn't be dead. He had battled with himself over it, what he saw that day over the things he'd seen Sherlock do everyday. It didn't make sense, he'd taken Sherlocks pulse, he was dead, but at the same time he couldn't be dead. He wouldn't do that to John, he just wouldn't. Sherlock knew how it felt to loose someone, John remembered him during the six months that he thought Irene to be dead. He was miserable, which in turn made John miserable. This was somehow different though, Sherlock had seemed angry but John felt something different. He wanted to be angry but he really just felt empty, like his life was gone, his reason for being. He'd only known Sherlock for a few years but he'd become Johns whole life. He was always doing a case with Sherlock, or having tea with Sherlock, or being Sherlocks moral compass. Everything in his life somehow involved Sherlock. Now Sherlock was gone and he didn't know what to do. All he knew was that everyone wanted him to move on. He figured he would have to do that eventually. He looked around their, or rather, his flat and saw that nothing had changes. Whether it has been on purpose he wasn't sure but he saw that he hadn't moved a single thing, and not one person had sat in Sherlocks armchair since he died. Even thinking the word made John feel queasy. 'Move on" It was all anyone would say. All he could do, and yet he knew he never could.