SHERLOCK!

Okay, I decided to do a little something over Sherlock just because SEASON THREE IS UNDER WAY but it's not coming until 2014. And also because I rewatched The Reichenbach Fall again and it depresses me.

Anyway this piece is probably going to be pretty short, three or four chapters at most, I guess; it's just… well, once you get the elements of Sherlock and John's lives apart, it's pretty bland. They're basically doing pretty much nothing (at least that's how I imagine it); it wouldn't be uninteresting to them but it's not much to write about. I gave it my best shot, though I'm probably going to go back and do a lot of editing in the future.

I'll stop my rambling now, here's Part 1.

Do not fear, for this darkness is coming to a close now. Things were not always meant to be so bleak; there is always hope, hope to look forward to, if we only remember to search for it in the blackest of nights. Despair is not life. Shadows do not last forever. Sooner or later, the sun will rise on the new morning, and all will be good again.

Part 1

He stood, concealed behind a thin linen curtain, in the topmost floor of the hospital, in a room that was completely empty, save himself. The dark-haired man was completely expressionless; this was not an unusual occurrence, but a war was raging in his head. It wasn't neat, organized, like it usually was; instead, it was chaos. Beneath it was a strange sense of numbness, one he'd never really experienced.

He hated it.

The other one, down on the sidewalk, had fallen to his knees. It was just possible to discern the way he had taken the hand of the body on the cement, his own shock, the way his shoulders shook with the tears he would not shed because it wasn't like him, because of the armor he'd required to survive for so long. His words rang in Sherlock Holmes's ears- "Friends protect each other."

For the first time, a sliver of grief passed over his face. He inhaled sharply and tipped his head down, squeezing his eyes shut. John was a friend, he realized. They both had; Sherlock knowingly, John, perhaps, unconsciously. They'd made the decision to accept it, whether they realized it or not. However exasperating they claimed the other to be, whatever happened, they were friends- without being enemies, for once.

The medics outside had picked up the body, had put it on a stretcher, were wheeling it inside. It was not Sherlock Holmes. The disguise had been quite simple, really- all it had required was the, ahem, "borrowing" of a corpse under study from the labs, a wig, a pint of donated blood, and the help of Molly Hooper to put the whole thing together in less than half an hour. They were going to do a bit of scrambling with the DNA, just to be thorough, then prevent him from being seen for as long as possible. They knew his being "dead" couldn't last forever, but they sought to prolong the ignorance of the general public as long as possible.

The sound of a door opening startled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Molly edging her way, quietly and rather timidly, into the room.

"They've gone," she murmured. "I've volunteered to do the analysis later, so that shouldn't be much of a problem…."

He nodded. "Thank… thank you. For everything."

She sighed and turned to go again; suddenly he burst out, "Can I ask you one more favor?"

John sat in his armchair, the usual one, his chin on his hand, staring at the other chair in the room. The one his best friend usually occupied. He squeezed his eyes shut, half-hoping that when he opened them Sherlock would be there with his fingertips pressed together, staring at nothing, mind working at a hundred miles a second; but alas, no one was there, and the momentary, fleeting comfort vanished.

He breathed slowly, for it was painful to do much else. His full teacup sat untouched on top of one of the psychology books that had been piled high, accumulated on the side table for a year and a half; it was cold.

John bowed his head, slowly. There was a battle raging inside him. He simply didn't know what to do- what he would do- how he would do it. How he would carry on like nothing had ever happened because it was now impossible to forget.

The therapist was always an option, but he didn't really want to go back. There was no current girlfriend; he hadn't really had much time to socialize while running around continuously solving crimes, but he couldn't face it on his own, it was too… well, too hard. He was still dazed….

He couldn't be gone… he just couldn't… it was impossible because Sherlock Holmes didn't die, he continued existing even though it was evident how much it hurt him in the fleeting moments when he thought John wasn't looking, he carried on; there would always be someone on the other side of the table or in the kitchen with a microscope or dashing around a crime scene in his black overcoat with the collar turned up; with the newspaper-wrapped hat, the thoughtfulness, everything….

John was taking huge, shuddering gasps of air now, trying to take it in, like maybe he could absorb it and get through it by just breathing. He wasn't crying, he couldn't, it was impossible now, after what he'd been through in the past; but it hadn't compared, hadn't matched up to this… the sense of emptiness. The loneliness.

Sherlock, I don't know what to do….

Please, please come back….

(it's short... sorry... I don't think this will be very lengthy, just an FYI.)

Thanks for reading :)