A/N: My first fanfic in a long while, guys. This show (and fandom) is just so good that I had to contribute!
Post-Reichenbach, so definitely spoilers up through 2x03. Slightly AU, since events on the roof go just a little bit differently. Sorry it starts off as mostly just angst, actual plot does sort of happen later on. I think it's a bit of a twist I haven't read yet, give it a try and tell me what you think!
Disclaimer – I of course do not own anything Sherlock-related (except for my books and DVDs!). All credit where credit is due.
There wasn't really anywhere he felt he could go. Not the hospital, like Lestrade had suggested. He didn't think there was much they could do for him, there. Not to the Yard, where he would probably have to be locked up for going on the run earlier, but mostly because he didn't know that he'd be able to stomach the sight of those people. Certainly not to Baker Street, with Mrs. Hudson sure to be hovering and sighing and sympathizing. Not to the flat. Not with the crying.
He hadn't cried. Maybe he couldn't. It didn't feel like he would, didn't feel like he could do anything.
His hands were still wrapped around his mug, cupped close like he was warming his fingers, but the coffee had grown tepid. The waitress hadn't come back since she had first plopped the drink down on the sticky plastic table. He hadn't really noticed.
He hadn't noticed anything, not for hours. Not a single thought passing through his mind as he clutched that cup.
Though really, he reflected minutes later, realizing his vacancy probably counted as a thought.
And that one, too.
His hand was sore. He detached white knuckled fingers from the mug and shook his hand out slowly.
Words from the news broadcast playing on the telly in the corner of the diner drifted over to him.
'Lies,' 'detective,' 'suicide,' echoed through his mind, and then Moriarty's face was on the screen, twisted into a caricature of rueful contrition.
"Awful business," he muttered. "Terrible to see what a corrupted mind is capable of."
The television anchor thanked Richard Brook for his input, and then there was footage from outside St. Bart's, people crowding around a dark heap on the pavement…
He spilled the lukewarm coffee in his haste to leave.
The night air was bracing. Cold sunk deep into his bones as he roamed the streets. Just when the sky was about to lighten, a flinty rain began to fall, seeping under the collar of his jacket and turning the pavement glossy.
Once half of London has scurried past him, elbowing him with umbrellas raised high, and the other half had roared by in the splash of a cab, his numb feet had finally carried him back to Baker Street.
After some hesitation, he entered, heading straight for the stairs.
Mrs. Hudson was out in a flash with 'oh, did he have any idea how worried she'd been' and 'he hadn't been out like that all night had he' and all the questions he didn't want to answer. It was a good thing she was there, however, because now that he'd reached the steps, he couldn't lift his leg to walk up them, couldn't even stand.
She couldn't help when John collapsed, but at least she was there.