This is that inevitable post-Reichenbach fic. It's not fabulous, but it's there. If I write a better one, I'll probably take this down and replace it. Till then, it's just my shout out to the universe about that episode that broke a few million hapless souls, whose only crime was being obsessed with a telly show. Cruel and unusual punishment!
I do have some projects that need completion. Or, more accurately, one. I'm working on it. I promise. It's just…MOFFAT! (Yes, that's my choice expletive now. Sad.)
Written to "Not Over You" by Gavin DeGraw.
Disclaimer: Needless to say, Reichenbach would have ended differently if I owned Sherlock.
Warnings: We miss Sherlock. That's all this is about. I do, you do, John does.
You miss him.
Everyone does.
You've caught Lestrade staring out into space. You've walked in on a crying Molly, hidden in the lab where she thought no-one could find her. You've seen the looks that Anderson and Donovan give each other when they think you can't see, two parts sadness and one part pity.
Pity for you.
It's not an ache. It's agony. Sharp, stabbing agony. Every time you wake up and go downstairs to see the case files strewn about, the skull on the mantelpiece, the chemistry set on the kitchen table. Every time someone calls to say they're sorry. Every time someone tries to make you laugh.
…
You know that people aren't possessions. And you know you're being selfish.
In any other world, you would care.
The guilt is what's killing you. You want to go back, tell him, show him that he didn't have to jump. That you were there. That you could help. That he didn't have to die alone.
You know you can't.
…
You want to show them all. Show them he was human, that he did care about people. Not all people. But he did care.
You need to show them that he was a good man. You need to show them that people did love him.
You never said. You never showed him, you never told him.
And even though he was so brilliant, he could never really read you. Not as well as he'd like.
You don't know if he ever realized how you felt.
And if he didn't, now he never will.
…
You're selfish. It's your last thought before you sleep and your first thought upon waking. He wasn't something anyone could catch and keep, let alone you. He was inhumanly beautiful in so many ways. You were past mundane next to him.
It didn't mean anything. Just because you were flat mates with him didn't mean you were special. It didn't make you better than everybody else.
You're selfish, John Watson.
And you didn't deserve him.
…
You could barely stomach the funeral. All those people, so strong and brave. People you didn't pretend to know. Telling such lies.
You almost stood up and yelled at them for saying nice things. You wanted them to talk about Sherlock. Not about their idea of him. How much of a git he could be at times, how his favorite excuse for shirking chores was that they interfered with experiments. How, once you got past the sociopath façade, he was a scared little boy just like everyone else.
You couldn't stand to hear him talked about like he was perfect.
…
You were never a jealous type. Not really. Not in relationships, ever.
But there are exceptions to every rule.
…
He was yours.
Yours, and yours alone.
You know it. They all know it too, deep down inside.
…
He didn't.