John limps along Baker Street, his leg throbbing worse than ever as he returns to the place where his life began. The memories gnaw at his mind, clouding his vision with salty tears that splash down his face. All he feels is pain, sharp and ongoing. The heart stopping agony of loss. It's all he knows.
Yet still John walks, closer and closer.
He feels he owes it to the consulting detective, to go back, to relive it all on his birthday. Or maybe it's that he needs to say goodbye to his heart, which so stubbornly stayed at 221b despite his relocation to a dingy flat across London. John has no idea; he only knows that he has to revisit the place that lingers on the corners of his thoughts at all times, both in nightmares and in daydreams, in waking moments and in sleep.
John hurts.
He thought it would go away, fade to a dull ache that only raises its ugly head when he is reminded of the impossible man who dragged him into a world of running across rooftops and crazy deductions. But no, apparently his subconscious has other plans for him. The sadness never leaves, the stabbing knives tracing broken hearts into his chest never end, the fire never stops burning. Such is the life of he who loses everything. Such is the life of he who relies on the devil. Such is the life of John Hamish Watson.
No matter how slowly John walks, the door keeps getting closer, every thump of his feet against concrete drawing him nearer. He finds himself wishing to fall, be swallowed into the ground, be ran over, murdered, anything to prevent him from arriving. For John feels certain that once he enters, he'll never be able to leave. He will end up trapped in the spider's web that Sherlock Holmes, foolish genius and impulsive lunatic, spun, winding the strands of adoration and love around him.
John knows he is mad, but he has lost too much of his mind to continue caring.
He is there. The door rises before him, black and imposing, the gold lettering seeming to jump out at him from the shadows. Mycroft, Greg, Molly, Sarah, Harry and Mike all offered to join him on his unexpected journey to rid himself of the memories, but he realised long ago that none of them really understand. When it comes to the matter of mourning Sherlock Holmes, John is alone. After all, no one else's universe revolved around him. John laughs at that thought, sounding bitter as he remembers the whole business with the workings of the solar system. How he wishes it were still that simple. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't have left him the world went round and round the garden like a teddy bear.
Sherlock would call this sentiment, would scorn the doctor as he tries to unlock the door with shaking hands, and would roll his eyes at John's tears. At last, he manages to open it, and steps through into the hallway with a bleeding heart. The building is empty. Even Mrs. Hudson is absent, having thought it more sensitive to leave John to his grieving. John is grateful for this, but can't help wishing he weren't so lonely. He just wants Sherlock back. He would even welcome his decreasing sanity for a chance to see the dead detective...just once.
John realises he has reached the living room, but doesn't remember climbing the stairs with his limp.
Looking around the room, he tries to imagine his best friend at his side, looking disdainful at the lack of dead bodies littering the floor. A murder would be good, a distraction from all that John fears and loves at the same time. The flat stands exactly as it was so many months ago, nothing having changed or moved even an inch. At John's request, Mrs. Hudson decided against donating Sherlock's possessions to schools and charities and the like, and Mycroft continues to pay the rent, ensuring that she never needs to find new people to rent the rooms. Mrs. Hudson says there's no need, but the older Holmes brother says it's the least he can do and John agrees. After accidentally giving Moriarty the tools to destroy the world's only hope for redemption, to pay the landlady to preserve that hope as it once was is the only way he can show how truly sorry he is, and always will be.
John likes to think that the room could still be lived in, if one were to think creatively, but he knows he is only diverting his train of thought from the depression that lingers in the air, threatening to overwhelm him. He clenches his eyes shut, tracing his fingertips along mantelpiece, collecting dust. A crumpled piece of paper lies beneath his hand. It says, 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.' Glancing into the dark corners of the flat, the places where anything could be hidden, John sees more, dozens of messages from faithful fans, concerned with holding onto the thrill of conspiracy. They all read, 'Moriarty was real', 'I will fight Watson's war', 'Richard Brook is a fake' or the ever popular 'I believe'. Some of the notes are elegant scripts, others written in code, but most are scrawled on blotted scraps of paper, reeking of desperation and hope.
Sinking into his old armchair, John allows himself to sob, really weep, for the first time since the funeral. Despite being forced to watch the dreadful event whenever he closes his eyes, hearing that scared whisper pierce his ears, he manages to put on a brave face most of the time. But being back here, home but not home, brings it all back. It's not just that Sherlock is gone, although John goes barely a minute without thinking of the dead man, it's that Sherlock departed from this world in a cloud of distrust, becoming an enigmatic illusion of a man.
But then,John thinks, he always was so dramatic.
He is happy, he really is, that all these people still hold onto a glimmer of truth, but that relief comes with more than its fair share of resent. It's so simple for them, the conspiracy theorists, the fans, the far off acquaintances. They can show their support, discuss hypotheses, even shout loudly about it in the street, and then go home. But John has no home to go to. Even here, where he was never bored, everything feels wrong. John's home was at Sherlock's side, be it at a crime scene, in the kitchen, or chasing criminals though London. And consequentially, his home now lies six feet under.
If John could, he'd join Sherlock beneath the ground without a second thought. But Mycroft never leaves him alone for long enough, meaning he must be content to dream his life away, not really living, barely functioning. Sherlock would hate him for his grief, his sentiment. But he in turn hates Sherlock for dying, so he supposes that there they are even. John doesn't hate life; he is merely weary of it, and sees no reason to occupy the land of the living now that his sun has died, burnt out by its own brilliance. He now sees Moriarty's point, and thoroughly agrees.
Staying alive...it's so boring, isn't it?