Okay, it has slight spoilers for Reichenbach. And angst. And dark themes. And then happy.
FEELING ALL THE FEELS! Thoughts?
"Molly, thank you. But I really don't need anyone with me tonight. I'd really just like to... Be alone." John Watson sighed as Molly Hooper stood up to leave.
Two cups sat on the table in front of him. One was cold, but still full. The other had been drained and there was lipstick around the brim. It was the first anniversary of Sherlock's death. Only a year before had John looked up at the top of Bart's and seen his best friend prepare to jump. His mind was racing and he couldn't really focus. Molly Hooper had come to visit, and though John hadn't left the house in days, but he hadn't really wanted any human company.
"No worries, John. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." She sighed as she picked up her purse and straightened her skirt. "Thank you for the tea."
John nods in acknowledgement, barely listening. He sits back in his chair. Sherlock's chair is still empty, as it has been for a year.
"Keep yourself safe, John, will you?" Molly asked, looking closely at him, hoping he'd listen.
"Wha..?" He turned and then remembered what she'd said, "Oh, yeah. Don't worry about me, Molly." He sighs, and she leans down to him, staring at him intently.
"Don't... Just, Greg and I are worried about you, John. You barely leave the house and you're so thin, you're like a skeleton. Look, I know today is hard for you, but don't do anything... Stupid."
This caught his attention. "Stupid? Like, what? What would be stupid?"
It almost sounded like a challenge, he thought. But he wasn't angry. Just lonely.
"It's been a year since his death. You've made it through a year. Please, don't..." Her voice quavered, "Don't try to join him, or anything."
John exhaled sharply and tried to force out a laugh. "No, Molly. Don't worry about me tonight."
She looked unconvinced.
John stood and started limping towards the door as a way of ushering her out. "Have a good night, will you? And tell Lestrade, too. I'm fine."
She nodded a few times and then backed out of the flat, worry apparent on her face. John forced a smile and she nodded again, before turning and passing the landing.
John closed the door, bolted it, and sat back down in his chair.
He pulled his laptop towards him one last time and opened his blog. He has emails that he'd never opened, one after another; condolences of a man they'd never met from the few who still believed Sherlock Holmes was an honest man. He appreciated the sentiment but was left unfeeling from it all.
He opened a new blog post and typed, slowly.
It was truly an honor knowing you. Thank you for the love and support you've given me this past year. I have said it before, and I will say it again: I believed in Sherlock Holmes, and will never stop believing in him. Thank you.
He knows he does not have much time now. Surely Molly and Lestrade would be watching his blog for something like this. Perhaps even Mycroft, the bastard. If they saw this they'd come over right away. He had to be gone, and soon, too.
Time to do something stupid he thinks, stupid like Sherlock. He grabs a piece of paper and scribbles on it-I'm Sorry Mrs. Hudson. Sorry Molly. Sorry Lestrade. Please forgive me. Mycroft, you can burn in hell, in fact, I hope to see you there. He had never forgiven Mycroft for betraying his brother.
He sets the note on the desk, in obvious sight. He knows it was miserable, an awful excuse for a last goodbye, but he doesn't have the time to spare. He pulls on his coat and shoes and grabs his revolver from his desk drawer, stowing it in his pocket. He turns off the lights at 221B Baker Street. He won't miss it.
He takes a cab, and that's maybe bad because it just reminds him of his and Sherlock's first case together. But then again, everything reminds him of Sherlock. He pushes the thought out of his mind. He wants his thoughts to be his own, just for a little while longer.
He arrived at Barts just minutes later. The revolver felt light in his pocket, and he ran through the doors and up the stairs-up, up, up, and to the top of the building. He gets his bearings and he makes sure to face the direction that Sherlock did when it was his turn. John looks down at the ground and sees a few people. It's quite dark, now, so no one will see him unless they're looking, but he can see the people. He knows how Sherlock must have seen him just moments before he died.
He had no one to call, though. He couldn't tell his best friend goodbye, because he's already gone. He planned to jump, but the gun was there for insurance; if someone tried to stop him, he had another escape route.
John's palms started sweating. This was what he wanted, he knew, but it didn't make it easier.
Easier, though, than the nights he woke up screaming, after seeing Sherlock's unseeing eyes and the blood on his face in his sleep. Or the dreams where Moriarty was back and killed Sherlock himself. The only good dreams where when he died with his best friend. When he was awake he was drained, exhausted and depressed. He didn't want to be a burden on the people he cared about anymore, and he'd become so withdrawn that he knew they'd easily cope without him.
He sat down on the edge, the sky getting darker still. He sat unfeeling. His leg was hurting him but he needed to give himself a few more moments of reflection. The pain made him stronger.
Before Sherlock he had lived his own life. He'd gone to war, gotten shot and come back, but then he met the most extraordinary man. Everything changed for him, and when Sherlock had gone, there was nothing left. There was no way to revert back to civilian life. The game was over.
He stood now, preparing to step over the edge. He had almost wanted do die in a magnificent dive, but he figured now it would look more like a less-than-graceful trip over the edge. Besides, grace was more Sherlock's thing. John was the cripple, after all.
His heart started beating and he started sweating now. This was going to be it. The final solution to every problem he had. His pulse raced and he could feel the cool rain start. It was symbolic to him; it was raining when Sherlock died. But this was England. Rain was not a surprise.
He held one foot over the edge, as if to test the water, before-
"John!"
No. John stumbled backwards for a moment. Someone had found him. Someone would try to stop him. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and pointed it at the darkness. He wouldn't hurt them, but he wasn't going to back down now.
"John, put the gun down."
He couldn't see the man, but the man could see him. It had gotten dark now, too dark.
"John, please, put the gun down!" The man got closer to him. John couldn't tell who it was. If he didn't know better, he would say it was Sherlock. But he did know better. Was it Mycroft? He changed his grip on the revolver and turned it to his own temple.
"Mycroft, is that you?" John whispered.
"John. The gun. Please." The man's voice quavered.
John inhaled. There was no way this wasn't Mycroft. "Because if it is God help me I want you to watch me die and know that MY DEATH WAS YOUR FAULT, TOO!"
"No, John." Now John could see his silhouette. He wasn't Mycroft. He was to thin. He allowed himself to chuckle remembering Sherlock's jab at him years ago "How's the diet going?".
But if it wasn't Mycroft, he didn't know who it could be. Lestrade was too short. Stamford wouldn't be here, and besides, he certainly wasn't skinny enough either. And thus was the extent of John's friends.
"Who are you?" John asked, "Are you the police? Don't come any closer. I don't want to hurt you but I am not coming out of this alive."
The man stepped closer, yet, despite Watson's warning, and then John could see him. He gasped.
This was a ghost he was seeing.
Not only was he suicidal, he was mad too.
"No," John whispered, "You're dead. You died. I saw you."
Sherlock shook his head. John let the gun fall to his side. He could die later. This, he needed to understand.
"I never died, John," Sherlock sounded guilty. "I faked my death. All of this was a lie. I needed you to believe I was dead because you were in danger. LESTRADE!" he called.
"You called me, though. You said it was your note." John shook his head.
"It was my farewell. It wasn't safe for me to see you."
"Why now?"
"I've been watching, John. I knew things were bad. I didn't know they were this bad. I couldn't fathom that I meant so much to you that you would consider taking your own life in mourning of mine. I'm sorry, John. This could have been my most devastating miscalculation."
John didn't know if he was mad or not, but he believed Sherlock Holmes. He had believed in him and madness wasn't going to stop him.
There was so much pain, still. And the fact John had not even succeeded in completing his own death was just another failure that he didn't want to accept. The pain couldn't just stop, but Sherlock gave him the miracle he had asked for.
But Sherlock was a royal bastard.
A feeling washed over John, the first true feeling in a long time. It was rage, and he planned to wield it at full strength.
"You absolute BASTARD, SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Watson screamed, drawing back and punching him square in the face.
Sherlock, who was not expecting this, was knocked to the ground. He tipped his head back in an attempt to slow the bleeding of his nose, before he got back up again.
"John, I'm sorry. I know. You have every right to be angry at me-"
But John was back. This time Sherlock was almost prepared. John punched him in the face, again.
"I have every right? I have more than every right! You bastard! You FUCKING BASTARD, Sherlock Holmes! You left me and I thought you were dead! You left me and I was so alone and if you hadn't appeared right now I would be smeared across the pavement like you were last year!"
John heard footsteps leading up to the rooftop and he figured Lestrade was near.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the rage quelled, replaced with dizziness.
With his eyes still closed, he stepped closer to Sherlock. "You're alive?" he asked.
"Yes, John. I'm alive."
"You're real?"
"I am."
"You know that I'm never going to forgive you for this Sherlock?"
Sherlock almost laughed. "I would expect nothing less."
John opened his eyes again. Sherlock was still there in front of him. There was blood dripping down his forehead and from his nose, over his lips and down his chin.
He looked as he had when John thought he had died, yet here he was. This was the huge moment of release that John needed. He exhaled and inhaled again, sharply, before he realized he was sobbing uncontrollably.
"Sherlock, don't leave me." He clutched onto Sherlock's coat.
"I won't, John,"
"Never do that to me again. Ever." He couldn't see. His head was spinning and tears clouded his vision. He sensed that he had lost control of his legs, but Sherlock was holding him up.
"No, John," Sherlock whispered. John was now fully aware that Sherlock was supporting him.
"You bastard."
"You're my only friend."
"You're my best friend."
"...John." A murmur.
"What, Sherlock?" He felt himself losing consciousness.
"Please don't try to leave me, ever again."
John wanted to be furious at him. But this was the miracle he hadn't dared dream of. Things would be okay.
Thanks for reading! I will funnel jam to our brokenhearted Watson for each review! :3
Also. I DON'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS! *insert seven chins*
Thank you!