Title: Please Don't
Characters/Pairings:
Sherlock, John; John/Sherlock, but you can take as friendship if you don't ship that sort
Fandom: Sherlock, BBC

Warnings: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR 2.03

Rating: K+

Notes: BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are the owners of Sherlock, I make no profit from writing what happens in my head.

John never thought it would have to come to this.

And even if he did, he would have never thought such a proud man like Sherlock would even tred that close the edge of caring about someone else. Sherlock had given his life for John, even if Moriarity had made it seem as though he were dead. There was too much of a web to untangle, or at least Sherlock must have thought so or he wouldn't have contemplated committing suicide.

Moriarty was ruthless, more ruthless than even the insurgents he'd fought in Afghanistan.

John had to talk to someone about what had happened, someone who might not read into his real feelings for the elusive detectives without friends. Everyone else was too rattled for such talk, they was just grateful he wasn't dead himself.

It was starting to feel like nobody really missed him, no one noticed that the world was empty, blank. Everyone went about their usual buisness, of sleep, eat, tube, work, telly. Normalcy, or the false sense thereof.

"Boring," John heard him say in his head. Though the thought was bitter that his chair in their little flat would sit empty, it still brought a faint smile at the memory.

"Please don't be dead... please." Was it a prayer to Sherlock? A plea perhaps? As though he could hear him.

Maybe it could just be a nightmare, and he'd wake up in the dark in their flat, and Sherlock without any sense of boundaries would open his door and flick his light on and mumble something about how John talking in his sleep disturbed his concentration, and his Rapid-Eye Movement at its usual time of 3AM.

But it was no nightmare, and it would have to be dealt with and probably medicated. Denial was no way of living. Oh, Sherlock had lived like that, but he could because John was the practical, pragmatic one.

But there was no one to be that for John if he went mad with grief. Sherlock wouldn't want him to grieve anyway.

"Waste of perfectly good brain cells," he would say. "Go solve another case. Make yourself usefully busy."

Talking about it certainly hadn't helped, perhaps he could just make a blog post and be done with the whole thing.

He sat as his computer, the cursor blinking at him, requesting something to be said.

The solving of this particular case of Moriarity's has not been without great personal cost, he wrote, though he wasn't quite sure where such sane-sounding words came from as John felt anything but sane.

What could he say about Sherlock? My friend, my collegue, is dead in order for this case to be closed.

Confidant. Of course there were other things Sherlock might be, but they had never really gotten the chance to find out.

"I don't have friends." The bitterness in that statement. Trying to hide the fear of being hurt again somehow. But John didn't ask; he didn't term their friendship - or whatever it was - on information about Sherlock's past.

He died because Moriaty's web wouldn't have it any other way, even though Moriaty is presumed dead.
Sherlock died so that myself and my fiancee would have a normal, happy life.

The last words he forced himself to type automatically, they felt strange, as though he didn't really feel that way, but it needed to be said. He hit "POST", and closed the laptop, this time unable to stop the tears that had refused him earlier.

"Please don't be dead..."