John had barely made it through the doors of the bathroom before he violently lost all of the contents of his stomach. As he retched, he was peripherally aware that his life, as of this morning, had just completely gone to hell. He leaned back, against the wall of the bathroom, sweating, shivering, and gasping for air. He didn't fully realize it, but he was also crying silently, and huge warm tears tracked briskly down his face, pale from shock. The truth of what had happened this morning was crashing over him, and his body was trying its best to reject it.
Earlier today, his life had been destroyed so completely, that John felt as if a massive weight were crushing his chest and preventing him from breathing. He was taking fast, panicked breathes, and knew that this was wrong and dangerous, but he seemed unable to keep any amount of air in his lungs for very long. The air he did manage to breathe in felt wrong. He felt numb. He didn't care. He didn't care if he were to hyperventilate and pass out. A loss of consciousness would be most welcome at the moment. His life, as he knew it, had ended today. It had been thrown from the rooftop of St. Bart's.
He could not abolish the image of Sherlock Holmes accelerating towards the pavement. It replayed in front of his eyes over and over again. He also saw the image of Sherlock bleeding out on the ground, his body grotesquely broken. There had been so much blood. What for? What was it for? John could make no sense of it.
He could not stay still. He was leaning on the wall, sitting on the floor—he was writhing in agony. His breathing became less ragged as he was momentarily distracted by the blood on his hands. He did not move to wash it off. He couldn't. He lowered himself slowly to the floor, transfixed by his reddened hands. He sat on the floor for some time, gazing studiously at the dry red stains on the palm of his hands and the tips of his fingers, his body trembling, and his shirt sweat-soaked and clinging to his body.
The blood was a precious substance. Something more valuable than the world's reserves of gold had been splattered onto the damp sidewalk that morning. It had been the life-force of the most brilliant man he had known. It was the blood of his best friend. John's face crumpled at this thought, and he cried audibly, and quickly covered his mouth, unable to stop the sounds and the tears and the horrible pain of it all. His body was racked by his sobs.
His mind was whirling, and it was on a horrible loop of being blown away by the shock of it all, and needing to know why it had happened. He could not fathom it. He thought again of the short but agonizing descent of Sherlock's body from the roof to the ground. He had only known his friend was going to die for a few short moments before it happened. He could not understand that it was real, because it felt like the worst nightmare he had ever experienced. He took deep breaths, blinking tears rapidly away, trying to calm himself, but he ended up sobbing again.
The weeks following Sherlock's suicide had been madness. Officially, Sherlock had only called John to say goodbye, because John refused to tell the police that Sherlock had admitted to being a fake. He told no one about their last conversation, as he had no idea what to make of it.
As far as the media was concerned, Sherlock had committed suicide because his fraud had been discovered. In the papers, John had been painted as an unfortunate victim of Sherlock's schemes. He refused to talk to reporters, and tried to avoid all contact with them.
Coming back from venturing out to get milk one afternoon, John had spied yet another paper claiming to have new details in the mysterious suicide of the "fake genius". He scowled and walked quickly back to the flat. He burst through the door and violently tossed his bag of groceries on the ground, grabbing his laptop. He opened up his blog page, and stopped. He closed his eyes, and sighed. When he opened them, a few tears escaped, and he brushed them angrily away, and typed slowly: "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him". He disabled comments to keep the desperate media at bay, closed his laptop decisively, and fetched up the discarded groceries, bringing them into the kitchen.
Lestrade, of course, had seen the post, and showed up at Baker Street within the hour, looking tired and worried. He had not managed to rid himself of his habit of not knocking.
"I don't have anything to say," John said immediately upon seeing Lestrade in the doorway.
"Yeah, well, I think you do, John," he said quietly, helping himself to a seat. John frowned and returned to the kitchen, and sighed, knowing that this conversation had been inevitable. He finally decided to be at least a little hospitable to Lestrade, and put the kettle on. Lestrade had been Sherlock's only friend left on the force, in the end.
John had given him a cup of tea, mumbled a "you're welcome", and sat silently, gazing at the wall with interest. Since John said nothing else, and made no indications of wanting to speak, Lestrade broke the silence. "What did he say to you, John?"
John stiffened noticeably. And Lestrade bit his lip, unsure about the topic, and hesitant to ask. "Greg," John sighed, rubbing his face. "I'm sorry—," Lestrade cut him off, knowing it was entirely necessary.
"Look, John. Richard Brook, or Moriarty, or whoever the hell he is, has disappeared. There's no trace of him anywhere."
John fell silent, wondering what that could possibly mean.
"I haven't pushed too much, because god knows these last few weeks have been difficult. But John, there is something going on here that we haven't been privy to. I don't think Sherlock's . . . ." he paused, reluctant to say the word. He grimaced, but forged ahead, "I don't think his death was an ordinary suicide. Something is going on. I need you."
John set his tea down, and ignored it, looking distant. He was silent for a moment, considering what exactly he should tell Lestrade. He decided that the truth was the only option. Maybe it would even help. "He said—he said that it was all true." He swallowed heavily.
Lestrade's eyes widened and he made an inaudible strangled noise, looking distressed.
"He said to tell you, to tell everyone that he was a—a fraud," John said, struggling to speak because it felt as if his throat were being blocked by that massive lump in it.
"And why the hell should he do that?" Lestrade asked, angrily.
"I have no idea, honestly, I don't. I don't understand it." John forced out, frustrated.
"Ok. And when you were called away . . ."
John tried to reign in his emotions. He cleared his throat, and continued, "I don't know. When I realized Mrs Hudson had not been shot, and the call was faked, I thought it had been Moriarty. But," John added , "I also realized then that Sherlock could have known, as soon as the call came, that it was just to get me away. He had to have known, yet he said nothing."
Lestrade frowned, and replied, "Well, that's hardly surprising, is it? He went off on his own all the time."
"I should have known!" John exclaimed, agitated. "I should have known by the way he acted! But he knew exactly what to say to piss me off and to ensure I left without him," John paused, trying to compose himself. He had thought before that maybe Sherlock had been the one to arrange the call, just so he could be alone to do . . . whatever he had done. Like Lestrade had said, he went off on his alone a lot, and John felt that maybe he did it to keep him out of harm's way. He shook the meandering thoughts from his mind, chastising himself for speculating without having any data. He decided to tell Lestrade what he knew, he and looked back up. "When I left, something happened to Sherlock, and by the time I came back, he was standing on the edge of the roof . . . and he was. . ." He trailed off, rose from his seat abruptly, and went to the kitchen, taking deep breaths and leaning on the counter.
Lestrade looked upset and leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes.
John's hands shook as he futilely wiped his tears away.
When weeks of enquiry turned up nothing but dead ends and false leads, John felt like they had all failed Sherlock. He felt like his friend had been stolen from him somehow, and he was powerless to find out what had happened. Of course it had been Moriarty, but how? How could he drive Sherlock to jump off of that fateful rooftop? What had driven him to it? It was a grotesque game that Sherlock had been involved in, and John was resentful of the fact that Sherlock had relished it at the beginning; by the end, however, John had recognized in the fear in his friend's eyes and the tremor in his voice. It felt like Moriarty had won, taking the most valuable prize of all.
After two months, he could stand to be in the flat no longer, and he moved out. John had finally accepted that Sherlock wouldn't come back if he simply waited for him. Mycroft assured him that Mrs Hudson would be compensated for the rent until John felt up to moving everything out. John had only stayed so long because he worried about her, but it soon became obvious that her worry for him was far greater, and perhaps even more justified. He had apologized, and hugged her, and told her he loved her, and to stop by and see him. She had cried, but nodded, and gave him more food than he could possibly eat. When he left, he didn't pack much. Baker Street flat 221B laid devoid of life, retaining all of the haunting remnants of John and Sherlock's shared life.
When a year had passed, he and Mrs Hudson went to visit Sherlock's grave site and leave flowers. When she had left him, to "you know" (he didn't), he had talked to Sherlock, hopelessly begging him to be alive, and he cried again. He was able to compose himself for the ride back, not wanting Mrs Hudson to ask questions. In the car, she had grabbed his hand, as if she had known everything anyway. He smiled at her, but everything still felt wrong and dead and empty. He still felt numb, and he still cried when he was alone. The emotion that dominated his life was agony, and the dreams that haunted his sleep were of Sherlock.