Reichenbach is a physical ache in my chest. I blame you, writers. I don't own Sherlock, but if I did, I'd hug it and tell it everything was going to be okay.
"Sherlock-."
John hadn't known what to say, there had been nothing but his name. Like somehow, if he said the man's name, it would remind him he was real, he was alive, convince him to get down, get down from the roofs edge and stop being such a hero.
Sherlock had told him not to make people into heroes, but John didn't always listen to everything Sherlock told him to do.
The conversation on the phone replays heartbreakingly. He can't seem to stop it, though he's not sure if he wants to. It is the only thing left inside that he can hang on to. He is scared that one day he will wake up and not remember Sherlock's face, not remember the lines, or his eyes, or the cupid's bow curl of his mouth. He is just scared.
He finds himself reaching out to people. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, even once Mycroft. Mycroft's reaction had pained him most. A simple "What can I do for you, John?," and John felt anger bubbling in his stomach. How could Mycroft remain so cold, almost? So clinical and emotionless. John had walked out and not gone back since.
Mrs Hudson had sniffled and dabbed at her eyes when he spoke to her. Talking of Sherlock always made her cry. John knew that though Sherlock caused mess and played the violin at stupid hours and blew bullets into her walls, she adored him, and John knew that Sherlock had adored her. His landlady's affection for Sherlock made him feel even sadder.
Lestrade had sympathised with John. It almost made him feel sick, in a way, because Sherlock would not have wanted sympathy. He spoke of the times Sherlock had helped them, and the times Sherlock had made them look like fools. There were far more of those times than the former.
Once, once, at his lowest, he reached out to Harry.
His sister, family. She had been drinking, more than usual, and John couldn't face that, not right then. She had offered only "Move on, Johnny boy. You can't change the past." John had snorted, slammed the phone down and breathed through his nose for a few moments. What would Harry know of moving on? He'd scoffed, then made a pledge not to speak to her until she sorted herself out. Properly, and apologised. He realised that she never might, and the next realisation that that would be alright made him angry at himself.
He hated being alone, but everybody he spoke to offered no comfort, so was forced to spend more and more time on his own, wandering London, late hours at the clinic (he'd found another), eating alone. He hated being so cut off from people, but hated the pressure of being with them even more.
Couldn't face being with anyone except Sherlock.
"Sherlock!-."
He wakes, a cold sweat clinging to him and making his clothes damp. He realises he's been dreaming of that moment, for maybe the 100th time, the moment he'd reached out to Sherlock and found nothing but air. Sherlock had reached for him too. So close and so far. What John would have done to have his fingers close in Sherlock's at that moment.
He suddenly feels so alone, in the dark, in his bedroom, at one in the morning, trying to slow his breathing.
With a start, he realises his hand is outstretched in front of him.
He lowers it, shaking, to the bedclothes.
Sherlock would not have wanted him to be alone. Sherlock.
He closes his eyes, breathing slowly.
"I'll try, Sherlock, I'll try, I promise."
Sometimes, John realises, the only thing you can do is reach out, and hope that someone will reach back.