I don't own anything. One-Shot possible continuation in regards to positive feedback. I hope you like it :D. I've been wanting to do this for a while. Not sure if it's any good haha. But I'm also eager to do another john/Sherlock where moriarty goes after john. I know slightly clichéd but if that sounds promising let me know :D.
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And so John waited.
"A year today." John whispered to himself, alone in 221B Baker Street. John thought back over the last year and he held his steaming tea tightly and glanced out at the stormy British weather.
He did not cry at the funeral, in fact he refused to go entirely. Mrs Hudson was the first to try to persuade him to come, and although adorned in the bleakest of blacks her face held a bright optimistic smile. He brushed her off, telling her he would see her afterwards. She had patted him on the back and left. Lestrade was the next to come, saying it would be best and he'd wish he'd come later if he didn't. John remembered he had calmly replied that they were viewing a fake body, it was a trick; Sherlock Holmes was not dead. Thinking that he was in denial, Lestrade had given him a tight, pitying smile and left. When next he looked up he saw Molly standing at the door. He had asked her if she had come to get him to go to the funeral too. She had smiled sweetly and shook her head, instead she came and sat next to him. He's not dead, he had repeated. She looked into his eyes and said quite surely 'I know'. And so John waited.
In the end it wasn't his denial that had gotten to him but the loneliness. In a daze, he would always, and still always, made two cups of coffee (black, two sugars), buy too much milk and awakened at around three in the morning to previous whispering of violins. But he didn't mind, he knew that his friend would be back soon. And so, John waited.
It took three months until it fully hit him, that he realised he was in denial and that his friend might in fact be dead. He lost his job, forgot to eat, couldn't sleep, and generally retreated within himself, only bothering with his facade of coping when people came to see him (however pointlessly). He cried at first, and then became angry. He shouted his misery at the invisible form of his friend on the couch opposite to him. He'd ask what was taking him so long, to send him a sign that he was still alive, and to hurry the fuck up. John's limp got much worse to the point where it started to shake at slight pressure and cramped in the middle of the night. At one point he ran through the pouring rain and pounded at the ground of Sherlock's grave, asking him why, sobs cracking his body. He had spent the night there, shivering and coated in mud as he sat on Sherlock's grave wondering why his friend had abandoned him. He started to use his cane again. And still John waited.
For a while after his emotion were spent John turned into a ghost himself. His friends came to help but he barely registered their words, he was a shadow of himself. The months flew past. At one point Mycroft kidnapped him and forced him to go to his therapist. It was a close to feeling normal he'd had in a long time. It became a regular occurrence just for something to do. He realised upon one trip to the supermarket that his savings had run out, and took up Lestrade's job offer with the police. He worked himself half to death, not having anything better to do, ignoring the pitying glances of his co-workers. On one faithful night Lestrade had come to his work place and told him to go home, and that this much grief for someone he knew for such a short time was unnatural, it was time for him to move on. In the first real emotions he'd had in months, the anger he'd kept suppressed surfaced, and he had punched him had in the face, shouted and cussed at his boss and friend. He asked him how would he know, someone he loved had never cruelly abandoned, given him his life back only to snatch it away again. At this he stopped and Lestrade watched his face carefully as is dawned on him, he had loved – was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He told Lestrade this of which he showed little surprise, like he'd purposely provoked him to try and rekindle the old John. He asked him how long he had known, to which Lestrade had smiled and said it was obvious from the beginning. They had then gone out – John's first since the fall – for drinks, and John had let out how miserable he was. Lestrade had been supportive, and said that they all just wanted him to be happy. And John waited.
John had been waiting for a year. And on the 365th day, around noon as he sipped his tea, he looked up and found what he'd been waiting for.
Reviews are love. I'd like to write more but I'm not sure if anyone would want to read. Maybe I'll write something else anyway :). Thanks for taking the time to read all the way through, it means a lot to me.