"Oh morning come bursting, the clouds, Amen.
Lift off this blindfold, let me see again
And bring back the water, let your ships roll in.
In my heart she left a hole."
Regardless of how much time had passed, it still felt as if Sherlock had gone away just for a couple days as he used to, like the time he went to Belarus, the week he spent in Paris - or was it Rome? He couldn't remember. Sherlock spoke both languages fluently, so he supposed it didn't really matter. Probably both. What mattered was that he would come back. He wouldalways come back. He would burst through the door loudly and announce his arrival, drape his coat across the nearest piece of furniture and look in the fridge for food (a rare occurrence at any other time except when a case was newly solved and he was home). Of course, he would immediately want to fill John in on everything that had happened in his absence. Well, that is if by fill in you mean complain to. Which they did.
And, despite himself, as much as John would complain right back at him about the mess he'd made even though he'd only been back 10 minutes, and how peaceful it'd been before he'd come back again and ruined it, and how Mycroft had been texting him constantly all because Sherlock couldn't be arsed to bloody reply, John would smile at the stories, and laugh at the complaints, and - though he'd never admit it - every time he'd be glad. Glad that Sherlock was home.
Contrary to the beliefs of many people who knew him, John wasn't crazy. He knew Sherlock wasn't coming home this time. He knew Sherlock would never come home again. But that didn't mean he didn't want him to. The things he would give for Sherlock to walk back through that door and tell him exactly what he'd been doing for the last 16 months and 27 days in excruciating detail that only he was capable of. To make him smile without trying, to make him drop everything he was doing to call Lestrade, or take a taxi to St Bart's because he "needed fresher samples", to stop him from feeling so lost, and so empty. No, reality and sanity didn't stop John from feeling like Sherlock was flying home in a couple days' time, just as it did not stop him from wishing that were true. And honestly, he didn't know if it ever would.
"The tightrope that I'm walking just sways and ties,
The devil as he's talking with those angel's eyes,
And I just want to be there when the lightning strikes,
And the saints go marching in."
He'd tried, at first. Getting rid of anything that reminded him of Sherlock, attempting to move on. He'd moved out of the flat, stopped blogging, he didn't even take taxis anymore. But for all that his outside world lacked everything that could logically be associated with Sherlock, his mind made up for. Sherlock was everywhere. He'd see him in a tall stranger with dark curls or sharp cheekbones, a black coat in a shop window or a fleeting facial expression. He'd be reading the papers on the tube and suddenly be struck by a completely unrelated memory of the afternoon he'd suggested they play Cluedo, or opening presents on Christmas morning out of those stockings Mrs Hudson had knitted specially.
Eventually, he gave up. There was no use cutting Sherlock out of his life, pretending like they never happened. He started living in 221B once more, getting every little item that had littered their flat out of the loft where he had hidden them, not wanting to ever see them again but unable to throw them away, and putting them back exactly where they had been before. But once he started letting Sherlock back in, he found it hard to stop. He just wanted to feel close to him again. Sometimes that meant staying up late listening to violin music or walking through London looking up at the stars, and sometimes that meant sticking multiple nicotine patches to his arms and reading books from Sherlock's never-ending collection, or lying on the sofa smoking the emergency cigarettes that Sherlock had never found.
John missed the adrenaline rush he got from cases. When he turned on the news and saw Lestrade talking at a press conference about a new string of murders, he wished he'd got a call the minute it'd happened and rushed over to inspect the bodies, wished Sherlock had wrapped up the case by now so there was no use in watching the news and they'd watch anything Sherlock deemed less boring instead. So he looked for the adrenaline buzz wherever he could. Be it running out into the road a little too late, or purposefully pissing off drunk men at the pub to see if they'd try to fight him, or leaving a shop with something small he hadn't paid for. He knew it was irresponsible and ridiculous but there was no-one he needed to take care of anymore, so really what was the point in being responsible?
However, one thing he could not find a way to replace was that feeling that he was going somewhere with his life, doing something, helping to save people's lives - not just sitting alone in a flat, with the ghost of a man who'd been dead longer than they'd even known each other.
"And sing slow-ow-ow-ow it down.
Through chaos as it swirls,
It's us against the world."
John remembered those moments when they ran through the streets of London, laughing uncontrollably in spite of themselves. It didn't matter after who they were running, or from who, or where to – they were temporary details, they weren't important. But in those moments, time would slow and he felt like it would never end. Like they would never end. That's what life was about, those moments. His life up to this point hadn't been a smooth journey, knowing exactly where he was going from start to finish, but here he felt like he belonged. John had found what everyone went through life trying to find. He felt like there was nothing they couldn't do and yet nothing more they needed to do. He saw them doing just this for the rest of their lives. So he made a silent promise - that no matter how bad he thought it was, he would never leave Sherlock. Not for anyone or anything. They didn't need to change, they didn't need more. He just needed them.
"And if we could float away
Fly up to the surface and just start again
And lift off before trouble
Just erodes us in the rain
Just erodes us in the rain
Just erodes us and see roses in the rain"
John wished he could go back and start again. Back to that first day at St Bart's, the first time he met Sherlock. Before everything had gone wrong and he'd been left to face the rest of his life alone. He wouldn't change it so they never met, he would never dream of trading what they had before just so he wouldn't have to deal with what he had now. Whatever came now, it was worth it. No, he wouldn't change that. But he would do things differently. He would make sure Sherlock never ended up on that rooftop, never met Moriarty, even. He'd make sure Sherlock was alive and they were alive together. Lived their lives together.
But sometimes he wondered…even if he could go back, would he really be able to change anything at all? He could have shot the cabbie twice for an instant kill so Sherlock would have never heard him scream that name, but Moriarty would still have blown up Baker Street, still have taken those hostages and left that letter for Sherlock that began it all. They would always find themselves on that rooftop. And Sherlock would always be left with a choice – to die or to live, to stay or to leave, to jump or not to jump. But maybe, just maybe, John could change which choice he made. If he could go back in time and do it all over again, perhaps he could make sure Sherlock knew. Knew how much he meant to John, knew what John felt but never said every time he came home again, knew what it would do to him if he was ever suddenly not there anymore, knew what it had done. Knew that he was needed. Knew that he was loved.
"Like a river to a raindrop, I lost a friend
My drunken hazard Daniel in a lion's den
And tonight I know it all has to begin again
So whatever you do, don't let go."
People lose friends everyday, best friends even. They cry, they mourn, they grieve, and then they move on. They live. John had successfully passed the first three hurdles but it seemed he had tripped and broken every bone in his body because he was no nearer to the others then he had been the day after Sherlock jumped.
Life with Sherlock, for that is the only way it can be described, was insane. It didn't make sense for such a lifestyle to exist and it made even less sense for it to belong to John Watson. Having Sherlock in his life was like having a whole different life. A crazy, alternate life that no-one else could have and no-one else could understand. But, for some twisted reason, he loved it. And when he lost Sherlock, he not only lost his best friend but his whole world went with him. It was like being dropped back into reality.
John hadn't noticed Sherlock gradually taking over everything in his life until he was gone and there was nothing left. His friends – Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly – he realised were all Sherlock's friends. Everything he did in his spare time – blogging, searching the paper for obscure cases Sherlock might rate over a 7, eating out while listening to every private detail of the other diners' lives being laid out for him like a map, watching Sherlock watch TV and shout at the screen about plot flaws and idiots, visiting crime scenes or St Bart's morgue – these were all things that revolved around Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't fair. How could he have been stupid enough to allow Sherlock to walk into his life, uproot and take over every part of him, only to abandon him, leaving him to pick up the non-existent remains?
But he'd decided enough was enough. He had made a promise to himself, and John Watson did not break promises easily. After tonight, he was finally moving on. Which meant that this was it - his last night with Sherlock. It had had been coming for a long time. He was sure he'd see the sun rise - he'd be damned if he wasted a single second of this. He would look through his blog, old photos and souvenirs, he would sit in his chair across from Sherlock's as he did every other day, and he would remember. Remember every day with Sherlock - every perfect moment, every not so perfect moment. Remember how they met, remember why he loved him, remember how he left, remember why he had to do this. And tomorrow he would go to sleep, and when he woke up he would start his new life. It was time. He had to move on. He had to let go.
"Sing slow-ow-ow-ow it down
Slow-ow-ow-ow it down
Through chaos as it swirls
It's just us against the world
Through chaos as it swirls
It's us against the world."