Sherlock is dead. My best friend. He is dead.
The film played on an endless reel in his head. His own final words, hand falling, phone dropping. Legs like lead as he ran. Tried to run. Moving in slow motion. Each step taking forever.
What had made him stumble? The cyclist.
Scrambling up. Too late, too late already. Not close enough and way too late already.
It made no difference whether John was awake or asleep. The events played regardless. The phone dropped. His feet struggled.
There was no better, no all's well. No relief in waking up. Just the useless, useless legs, the delayed reactions. Sherlock is dead.
People die, John. It's what they do. You know that. They just go and die. You've killed people, you know how it is. One minute there, gone the next. Dead.
Sherlock would never kill himself. He was too full of himself, wasn't he? Really believed he was gods' gift to mankind. Or at least to the Met. He never would.
But he had. John had seen it. He had seen the body. He had touched the body. Dead.
The jugular pulse had started to bother John. He hadn't checked it. He hadn't been able to. Too many people around the body. Had he been pushed away?
It really made no difference. Just a quirk. A professional's tick. But it bothered him. An unfinished task he couldn't check off his list. He should have been more thorough. He had tried.
Anyway it didn't matter. Sherlock would not do that to him. Not even Sherlock would be such a dick. No. So he should just let it go. Face the facts.
Dead people. Safer than living. Will not cause any more pain. Have caused all the pain they possibly can.
John specialises in forensic pathology. Hadn't thought he would be studying again. Lestrade helps him obtain one of the training posts. He wants to work in the field. As little in a mortuary as possible.
He keeps on seeing violent deaths. Not that they themselves provide any of the kind of excitement that used to make him feel better. He misses the genius who helped make sense of it. Misses the sense of adventure where he could still count on everything being all right in the end. Misses the one who made sure of it.
He hates death. Hates it with a passion. Does the best he can and more to stop it. To put anyone bringing death about behind bars. He is very good with his work. Thorough, observant, perfect in court: clear, sympathetic, short words, to the point. As good as an ordinary man can be.
He is deeply unhappy. He soldiers on.
John avoids working with Lestrade's team when he can. Hates the sight of them. Knows it's irrational. When he can't, he pretends they're not there.
He does take joy in seeing Anderson and Donovan fight over his wife. What did she think? That he would leave her? No, Sally, that is not the way these things work.
The more John sees, the more he suspects. Falls, that is. People jump off high places more than you'd think. The young, the old. More men than women. Taking that final, irreversible step. On occasion being made to take it. John studies them.
Too bad his recollections are so blurry. The shock and the cyclist having confused him.
The cyclist. His thoughts always return to him.
He has a copy of the file. The mountains of paper a death in public creates are staggering. But there is no cyclist.
He starts giving money to every beggar he meets. Gets to know the ones near the Yard, near his flat, near St Bart's. Learns their names, listens to their stories. Patches up their bruises. There is always enough time to be friendly.
"Face the realities, John," he tells himself.
The trouble is, he doesn't want to. He doesn't like the reality.
He lies to his therapist. One way to ensure she won't be able to help. He is A-OK. Studies, work, mighty interesting. No worries. Death? Who's dead? Oh, him, well, these things happen. Shock, yes, at first of course. But. Been to the war and all that. Seen worse. Why, the leg? Odd, isn't it? Doesn't bother him, no. Why would it? The old wound playing up. And even if it's psycho-somatic, well, what can you do, eh? He doesn't mind. War leaves scars. That's just the way it is. Must make the best of it.
The more time goes by the more fuel creeps in to the fire. He can't be sure anymore what he remembers, and what he has made up. The rubber ball for example. Did Sherlock really bounce a rubber ball at the lab? It seems impossible to him now. But he has a clear memory of its thud against the floor and the cupboard door.
Sherlock doesn't fiddle when he is thinking, he focuses. He can almost see Sherlock's fingers squeezing the ball. Why would his mind make that up?
They played that game in medical school all those years ago. As an exercise: how to find a pulse when the patient is trapped, can't be reached. What information to trust. For fun, too: who would find a date who'd buy the 'I'm a vampire, I don't have a pulse' –line (one of girls did, he seems to remember). He doesn't dare ask: is he that date now?
John now knows precisely what a man falling from the top of a five-storey building looks like. How he sprawls on the pavement. What is intrinsic bruising. What is typical and atypical. What is impossible.
He does not remember what Sherlock looked like. He remembers blind panic. He remembers the dark hair. Unimportant details.
John, details are never unimportant. He goes back to them. But he can't trust his memories.
There are no photos. Sherlock was whisked away too soon.
He asks Molly about the rubber ball. She twitches, says she doesn't remember. Will not meet his eyes.
Molly starts avoiding him. Turns around in corridors. Is always on the phone when passing him.
No, she has avoided him all along. Didn't come to the meet-up when he started his training. Hasn't worked with him once. Which is near impossible with the minimal staff they are. Embarrassed at having fallen for a fraud? Doesn't she believe in Sherlock?
He corners her, asks her straight up. She will not meet his eyes. She will not answer.
He's in panic all over again. Feels dizzy. Why won't she answer? Doesn't she believe?
"Sorry, I can't help you, John, I've got to dash."
He sits down on the floor. What does it mean? Does it mean something? What are you doing? Making up a conspiracy? Pull yourself together.
He lies in his blog. He is focused on his work. Finds it rewarding. Life is good. He doesn't tell anyone what he really is focused on.
Who does he lie to? Himself? Why? What's the point? He already knows, doesn't he?
What? What does he know?
"You are not a fanciful man, John Watson," he tells the mirror. Can a mirror image frown in disbelief?
When he goes out on a date he can't hear what she is saying. He only hears the steady thud of a rubber ball. He only sees a wisp of short dark curls. There are no second dates.
There are no first dates.
Why wasn't Mycroft at the burial?
"John, I'm sure even you must realise that I have no desire to converse with you now that Sherlock is gone. We are not friends on our own right, I counted on you understanding that much."
John is barred from his club. Can't get near him.
Why do the CCTV cameras always pan his way then?
He flips at them. Can't get in touch with Mycroft for an answer. Keep the bloody cameras off me, if I'm a person of no interest.
Why preserve Sherlock's rooms? Not come to his grave but pay for the upkeep of a mausoleum?
He is taken down by security as he tries to approach Mycroft. Spends a night in a cell.
Succeeds in being an annoyance at least.
"Let it go", his therapist would say, if he told her the truth, "you can't go on like this. It's not healthy."
Sherlock is dead. You saw him fall. I didn't see him hit the ground. I hit the ground. You saw his body. But was it a dead body? Of course it was. Get it together for Pete's sake!
The fall. He wakes up to it. Feels he is close to something.