Note; My First Fanfiction! The first chapter is a bit short, and covers all the antecedent emotions which I wanted to get out of the way :) Enjoy!
John was wearing his typical beige jumper as he dug out his keys, neatly sliding it into the dark burgundy door of 221B Baker Street. His hands shook slightly as he pushed into the flat, but much less than they used to. Mrs. Hudson's tinkling laughter floated in from the cafe, and for the first time in years, he felt no sorrowful envy of her recovery. He paused there, at the bottom of the stairs, leg aching. Recovery. Recovery after Sherlock...He thought back to their first adventure, running back to the flat after a long cab chase and gasping for breath at that exact spot. He remembered their delusional laughter, and a sad smile crossed his face. Gripping his cane, he manoeuvred carefully up the stairs.
It had been three years since Sherlock's death, and John could still locate the empty hole in his heart. The first few months had been torture; meaningless and wrought with tears. He had gone back to his psychiatrist a couple of times, but she was as useless as ever. Mycroft had stopped by a couple times in the first year, and John cheerfully shut the door in his face during every visit. Mrs. Hudson packed away all of Sherlock's microscopes and lab equipment in neat little boxes, but John tore them apart after the funeral. He ran his fingers obsessively over the glass slides, letting his tears coat the surface of the neatly labelled rectangles. They slipped from his hands and shattered on the kitchen floor. John reached out and cut his fingers on the broken glass. All he could see was Sherlock. Shattered on the pavement, those clear eyes blank and unseeing, as if his great brain had simply evaporated from the broken body.
The second year had been slightly better, but not by much. He returned to his therapist again, simply because he had nothing better to do. She sat in her faded blue armchair as he listened to the rain dancing against the window, drowning out her voice. When he took a moment to respond to her useless words, she forced him to say it out loud; that Sherlock, his best friend, was dead. He had pressed his lips together into a thin, hard line. The thought had been locked away deep in his mind, far away from prying strangers. He would not admit the outrageous truth. But she coaxed and pushed, and the moment he opened his mouth a thousand feelings flew out from his mind and silenced him once more. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he attempted to locate the ammunition for his own gunshot.
"Sherlock, my best friend," He had choked, feeling the pain erupt in the back of his mind. He put a finger to his lips, as if he were trying to push back his words. But they bubbled up past his throat and broke past his weary defence. "He's...dead." It was barely a squeak, and all the life seemed to rush out of him with that word. Dead. John could feel the panic taking over his body, and his leg began to hurt terribly. He pushed himself out of his overly plush chair, which had made him feel nothing but uncomfortable over the years, and rushed out of the room without a second glance. His therapist tapped her pen methodically on her empty notebook. Even she was at a loss for words, unable to analyze the raging emotions within her patient. John Watson would not return to her office, and she quietly packed his file away in the depths of her cabinet.
It was hard, visiting Sherlock's grave. There were flowers this time, but John knew it was a mindless act of sympathy from the cemetery workers. Nobody who knew Sherlock would have bothered to put flowers on his grave. What John didn't notice was the painful glances from the gravediggers as they observed the ex-military doctor who tried to compose himself every week to enter the dreaded field of stones. The money they spared for a single bouquet of lilies and carnations each week, as if to reach out and tell him: You're not alone. But the blonde man just stared at the gravestone in silence, or simply stood at the gate for a moment before hurrying away. He seemed to shrink, month by month, as if a part of him was dying or being eaten away with each visit.
After the failed therapist session and the tumbling words, John finally found a way to speak. He stared at the golden imprint of his friend's name against the black granite, and opened his mouth. He waited for the words to come, to rush out of him. All he felt was an overwhelming rush of regret. He felt broken. A million memories flashed before his eyes, and all of them meaningless in that moment. Because Sherlock was gone.
I thought I would spend the rest of my life with you. Dreaded it, wondered what you would be like if you were old. Just as clever, I'd bet. Perhaps even more annoying, if that's possible.
Mrs. Hudson's footsteps faded behind him, and he was alone. Again.
That night at the hospital. If someone had woke me up and told me: this is your last day with him; that insufferable bastard in the corning bouncing that rubber ball around...I wouldn't have been able to stand it. The adventures that were waiting for us, how could you abandon them? How could you abandon me? All I have now is our memories. And I don't have a mind palace with a triple-locked vault and armed bodyguards where I can place you. All I have left, Sherlock, are these memories. And they're going to disappear because you aren't here anymore. These are the thoughts that you left me to live in, good days and bad days and cop chases. I'm left with this collection, that has finally stopped growing. How dare you cut our lives short, Sherlock? How dare you give me everything, only to take it away?
He didn't quite notice the transition when he moved away from angry thoughts and began physically begging the dirt beneath his feet to come back to life. When his own pained voice finally reached his ears, he fell silent. Sherlock, who had performed miracles all his life, had simply refused his only wish. And as John stood there in silence, he realized how delusional he had really become. He refused to accept Sherlock's death, and he was begging a stone to bring him back. Ashamed, tired and finally past denial, he turned to limp away with his last visit. A young gravedigger stared through his dust-speckled glasses at the broken soldier. He looked over to the tall, lanky man standing by the grove of oak trees. Dark curls spilled out from his head, a navy scarf was wound tightly around his neck. He, too, was watching John Watson. Then, as if linked by some magical puppet strings, the two turned at precisely the same moment, and walked away.