So far I've mostly done HP fanfics, but this one I wrote about a year ago after talking to a friend about our love for BBC Sherlock, and how we read fanfiction. This is mostly for her. It's quite terrible, I know, and a premise that has been done over and over.
Empty. That was what he was feeling. The last time he had felt empty was… well before. Before he'd even met Sherlock. When he came back from Afghanistan. Meeting Sherlock had fixed all that, but now Sherlock was gone, leaving an even bigger gap in John's life. A gap he knew could never be filled.
Molly kept coming by to check on him, telling him that Sherlock didn't want this for him, he didn't want John to sit around, he wanted John to live. He was getting frustrated with this. What would she know about what Sherlock wanted? He was gone, and not even John knew what Sherlock would want, and John knew him best. John was his only friend. Sherlock had said that once. That he just had one friend.
Everyone would come to check on him. Mrs Hudson was almost constantly, Lestrade would come by every so often, even Mycroft would stop by. He refused to see Mycroft. He knew it was stupid, but a part of John still blamed him.
Eventually, John had to leave the house. He had to go work, to pay for the flat, for food. He eventually had life come back to him again. People stopped checking up on him, because to them he was fine now. Maybe not happy, but he was getting through. He was learning to live without Sherlock. And he had to admit, it was nice to be able to get himself a cup of tea without finding a head in the fridge. Though sometimes he would give anything to find that head in the fridge. To walk in when Sherlock was shooting at the wall. It was peaceful now… but it was boring. It was wrong.
He'd had a long day at work and it was time to see one more patient. Apparently this patient had been doing a lot of travelling and thought that he had caught something on his travels. He didn't want to see this patient – he was tired and he just wanted to go home. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as the door opened and footsteps walked towards him.
"So, travelling? Where have you been?" he asked, trying to sound interested but he was sure it wasn't successful when he looked so bored.
"Oh, here and there," the patient said. John opened his eyes in shock. He knew that voice so well, but he hadn't heard it so long. He looked up at the taller man, with his high cheekbones and his coat collar up and almost fell out of his chair in shock.
"You're dead," John managed to get out.
"Yet here I am," Sherlock replied.
"I saw you jump. I saw you dead on the ground," John said.
"As usual, John, you saw but didn't observe. But that's exactly what I was counting on. I needed you to believe it. I needed it to be seen that I had jumped, otherwise Moriarty's men would have shot you, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. John shook his head, trying to understand what was going on.
"But – how - ?" he asked. Sherlock smiled.
"Dinner? I can explain then," he said.
"I'm not hungry," John said.
"Neither am I. Dinner?" Sherlock asked again. John nodded.
"Alright. Dinner."
I'm pretty sure it's more realistic for John to punch Sherlock or to be convinced that he was imagining things or faint rather than this way, but this is how I've written it.
Also I'm pretty sure I'm never going to write a Sherlock fanfic again.