A/N: This will be a multi-chap fic following John after The Fall. A study in grief.
Disclaimer: Sherlock will never be mine.
The three weeks he'd spent on Molly's couch were the best.
Right after It had happened, John had tried to stay at the flat.
After a week, Molly had come and packed a few weeks worth of his things in some simple black suitcases.
Clearly new, John had noted dully, bought especially for the occasion. She ordered him out and into the waiting taxi. John was too tired to argue.
There had been no funeral. Sherlock's will had forbidden such a nauseating (and generally insincere) display of sentimentality.
Other than his burial wishes, the document contained only five words. Everything to John. Sherlock Holmes.
Molly's flat was small, but cozy. She set him up on her sofa and nearly suffocated him under a pile of afghans and fuzzy throw blankets.
He pretended not to notice the crushed pills she sprinkled in his tea at night. Finally he slept. Deep, black and dreamless.
Unless he was needed at the surgery, John was there on Molly's sofa.
He would sit there all day, holding back the waves of grief. Because beneath the grief was a boundless sea of despair, panic and pain. He had nearly drown in it during the last week at 221B. Most of the time at Molly's he managed to float along the surface. It was better when she was home. It wasn't that she fussed over him, in fact for the most part she left him to himself. But when she wasn't there, the feelings surged, trying to break through his carefully constructed dams. She was like a living sort of white noise for him. He knew though, he couldn't live on Molly's couch forever. He couldn't return to Baker Street and he couldn't afford a single on his own.
The thought of looking for a flatmate - Just. No.
John didn't have much of a choice. He called Harry.
The ride to his childhood home with Harry had been a tense one.
Molly had helped him load his bags in the car and said goodbye to him with heartbroken eyes that were older than he remembered.
"Don't be stupid, John." she had whispered, before running back inside.
Harry tried to chat.
John stared out the window.
After three hours of trees and sheep and numbness, Harry was saying something "...never thought he was good enough for you. You deserve to be more than someone's lap dog, John."
"Don't say another word Harriet."
"Okay, but John-"
"No."
"Sorry- but you know-"
"I will jump out of the bleeding car, I swear to God."
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
...