Fandom: Sherlock.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson.
Genre: Drama, Romance, Hurt&Comfort.
Rating: M.
Spoilers: 2x3 "The Reichenbach Fall".
Disclaimers: Original characters belongs to the "Sherlock" fandom. I'm not making money out of this.
Summary: How Watson deals with the events resulting from "Reichenbach Fall". English is not my native language, so there might be (and probably WILL be) mistakes remaining. Sorry about that. I don't have any beta-reader – yet – but if you are up to it, feel free to apply for the job.
"Living in a Lie"
John tries to steady himself. He can hear the thunder growling like an empty stomach. The rain is pouring outside, he can see its patterns on the windows, where the drops are traveling. Alone in his bed, he hopes he can banish the memories. They haunt him every time he closes his eyes. Thinking became painful. Even breathing is.
The Doctor became a ghost. All kind of humanity left him. Only remains an empty shell, too damaged, too broken. He is lifeless and yet, he is still able to feel. He would rather like not to. Everything seems of no importance. Sherlock is gone. His best friend is dead and nothing else matters.
In the dark cold night, a shaky breath escapes his lips. A languid hand absently strokes across his stomach. It has been months since he touched himself, permitted himself to do so. And yet, he can not be affected by the way his fingers dances along his skin, scratching the human flesh ever so lightly, draining a few drops of blood. He can not understand why he is still alive when someone as wonderful as Sherlock is not. He wishes it could have been his blood shed across the pavement, that day.
He wishes he could pretend his fingers are Sherlock's. He wants to feel them everywhere, tenderly caressing him, claiming him. He needs to feel those fingers pressing along his spine, Sherlock's hot breath against his ear, making it real. Making them both alive. But Sherlock is dead. And the room is cold and empty.
John doesn't even realize he's come, until he rubs his sticky fingers. He wipes them quickly on the sheets. He hasn't had any pleasure, but he is still ashamed. As a doctor, he categorizes the reaction of his body. His iris are blown wide, his toes are curled and the muscles of his stomach still rumple after his orgasm. He is alive when Sherlock is not, and he feels guilty about it.
He turns around in Sherlock's bed. He has been sleeping here since the fall, missing him terribly. John buries his head in his friend's pillow, trying to catch Sherlock's comforting scent. Tomorrow, he will pretend to be okay. He will get up, get dressed and pursue his work. He will drink coffee with Molly and maybe laugh at one of her jokes. He will drink tea with Mrs Hudson and kiss her goodnight on the cheek.
He knows she knows how much he suffers, and she probably does too. But they never talk about it. They never pronounce his name. Only John does, late at night, when he is too lonely to even care about how ridiculous he might sound. But when night fades away and John is not alone anymore, he pretends. He's been living in a lie long enough to master the art.
His voice is broken when he whispers "I miss you, Sherlock" into the pillow. Then he confesses: "I love you so much" as tears escape his eyes. He holds the pillow like he would hold Sherlock, desperately clinging onto him. As he closes his eyes, he can imagine his friend's arms around him, pulling him into a loving embrace. He can almost feel Sherlock's perfumed breath on his cheek, as the Detective kisses him lightly and acknowledges his love towards him.
He smiles lightly, feeling warm and safe. Loved.
Only that too, is a lie.