Three years.
Three years after Sherlock jumped from the rooftop of St. Barts.
Three years and John was still grieving – with the bottom of his heart.
He was grieving, mostly crying when he was alone. Alone and with nothing to do.
The tremor in his hand was back and also the limp with his leg. Not every day, but on some days, especially when he thought too much about Sherlock, then he needed his cane and his hand was trembling.
He had left Baker Street 221b, after a few weeks. Every night he had slept in Sherlock's bed, had waited for the soft violin music, had waited for Sherlock, had made him tea, had sat in his chair. And finally he had talked with the skull. He had been extremely exhausted and it had driven him mad, so that he had decided to leave Baker Street.
He had decided to quit his job at the clinic.
And he had decided to leave Greg alone with his crime scenes. It wasn't the same without Sherlock. And he didn't want to be there without him.
So he had moved to Potters Bar – a lovely house with a garden. Thanks to Mycroft.
Thanks to Mycroft for all what he had done, since Sherlock had jumped from the rooftop.
Two times a week he spent his time at a physiotherapy school to teach anatomy. And the rest of the week he was writing, writing books as an author. And he was quite good at this.
John had searched a new psychiatrist. Every Thursday 9 am. It helped, at least a bit.
The worst thing was, that he felt absolutely guilty for Sherlock's suicide. It was his fault, he was Sherlock's best friend and he hadn't seen that his friend has such big problems that its only possible solution seemed to be jumping from a rooftop.
And on top of that, John had seen it, had seen how Sherlock had jumped; jumped from a high building. Blood, so much blood. Things that he saw in his nightmares. There weren't nightmares about Afghanistan, there were just nightmares about Sherlock. Every time the same one. Jumping and blood and John, who wasn't able to stop and help Sherlock.
John had thought about the reasons.
The reasons, why this man had jumped.
Hadn't he felt loved? That was the worst reasons of all – for John.
Because Sherlock was loved, so much. John had loved him, more than that, he still was in love with this man and he loves him, with the bottom of his heart and all he has.
As a colleague.
As a friend.
As a best friend.
As a man.
John was gay; gay as hell. He was never involved in something with a girl, not for one kiss and absolutely not for more than a kiss – but because of really bad experiences with his dad, people at school, people at the university, people he didn't even know, he had kept it a secret.
Especially in front of Sherlock.
John has been interested in Sherlock since the first day they met each other. Thanks to Mike.
And at the dinner at Angelo's, Sherlock had told him that he was married to his work and John had tried not to fall in love with him.
But he wasn't successful, the harder he tried, the more he fell in love with this mad man. Until he gave his heart to Sherlock totally and unconditionally.
So he had kept his secret even deeper for Sherlock. He was afraid, that if Sherlock would know that he was gay, that he would deduce that John was in love with him. And that means, that he probably loses Sherlock's friendship. And that was the last thing he wanted. Rather Sherlock's friendship than nothing.
And now he was dead, and John had missed the chance to say Sherlock, how much he cares about him, how much he loves him. He had mumbled it to Sherlock's grave, every week, when he visits it; then he mumbled - I love you.
But the thought, that he will never be able to tell him that in person, makes him grief even more.
Of course he had gone out with Sarah and the other lovely ladies, but that were always just nice evenings with a woman, a nice dinner, a lovely movie night, or whatever. After dinner or a movie or a drink, he had always been in a gay bar or a club, searching for someone:
Tall, black hair, if possible a little curly, slender, deep voice.
Searching for someone, who looked as much as possible like Sherlock and could fuck him.
Sometimes, or actually often, he was interrupted by Sherlock's messages.
And so he just had his imaginations and his hand.
Now after three years he couldn't let him go, his heart didn't want to let Sherlock go and so it comes, that John sometimes searched a tall, slender man, with dark hair and a deep voice and get fucked by him.
The first person, which John told that he was gay, was Mycroft. And Mycroft was the only person, who knew that John was in love with Sherlock.
Mycroft – almost unbelievable, but Mycroft had become a close friend, a really close friend, even closer than Greg. He had taken care of John, since day one, since the day, Sherlock had jumped. They had talked so much and often with each other, not just about, how was the day, but about really intimate and deep things.
Mycroft had changed, he had met a lovely woman, he had taken things slow with the job, wasn't in such a high position anymore. He was wearing not only suits anymore, but also casual button shirts, jeans, sometimes even a tee shirt or nice sweater - of course expensive ones. He was wearing glasses now, had often a three-days-stubble, which really suits him and since he was with Amanda, he was in such good shape.
Every Friday they met, mostly at Baker Street 221b with Mrs. Hudson in the afternoon for a piece of cake and a coffee or tea, and then they went to Mycroft's place or back to John, with or without Amanda, sometimes there were joined by Molly and Greg.
And not only that, they met each other sometimes on weekends, sometimes during the week.
They had a great chemistry and sometimes John couldn't believe it.
He really enjoyed the time he spent with Mycroft and he was such a good distraction. Even though they had talked much about Sherlock, for the last three years.
And John now know, that Mycroft had always cared about Sherlock, very much. That he didn't knew why they both broke apart like this and that he didn't really know why Sherlock has closed his heart in such a really extreme way.
Mycroft had told him, that he always wanted to see Sherlock happy, that he had watched and stalked him to know that everything was fine, fine in a Sherlock way and that he didn't knew how to handle with him, because Sherlock always got really grumpy and upset as soon as Mycroft showed up.
And Mycroft had told him several times that he missed his brother very much. But a thing that John doesn't knew was, that Mycroft missed Sherlock not because he was 'dead', but just as his brother, his little brother, the brother he was before Mycroft went to the university.
Today, John was appointed with Mycroft, for lunch, the F1 race in Monaco – telly of course - and maybe a takeaway for dinner, at John's place.
As John heard the bell ringing, he went out of the kitchen, into the floor and to the door.
At the wardrobe hung Sherlock's coat and the blue scarf, as always. Mycroft and Greg had rescued both things from the police and had given it to him.