Hello, readers! This is my first go at a Sherlock fanfic. I hope I did the series and characters justice! This is just going to be a short story. I don't plan on it going beyond three or so chapters. Let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock"
Delete the Blog
Move on.
Delete the blog.
It's too hard.
Deleting that blasted blog is too hard.
That blasted blog has everything.
That blog will soon be my last connection.
The exhausted, sunken-eyed man ran a hand distractedly over his face, briefly thinking that he should shave soon as his palm was scratch by rough stubble, but that thought was soon thrown from his mind as his depression settled over him again. Closing his eyes against the burning, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. Taking a shuttering breath to calm his racing nerves, he pushed himself out of the chair.
Ignoring the painful sights of the flat around him, John sat at the table and flipped his laptop open. Pulling up his blog, he moved the cursor to delete and clicked it. As the message popped up for him to confirm his decision, the cursor hovering over yes, the despondent man's thoughts drifted back to earlier that morning.
"It's been almost two years, John. You've come so far as it is. Now, you must take the next step to move on," she said in an even, unfeeling tone.
"What do you mean?" he choked out.
"The blog, John. It's holding you back, tying you down to a time that no longer exists. Two years has been plenty of time, and now the time has come for you to remove it from your life."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John blurted out in a fury, standing from his chair to hover over the ever statuesque woman. "You want me to forget about him? About what we did? The times we shared?" He looked away as tears began to blur his vision, and his voice refused to make its way around the lump rising in his throat.
"You want me to delete it? As if he never existed?" he finally managed to strangle out.
"Now, John, that's not what I meant. You can't forget him: he was your friend. But you do need to be rid of this blog. It's tying you down to that past life; it's preventing you from moving on."
Silence filled the room as the patient tried to sort out the tumult of emotions that were surging through him and muddling his thoughts. A light sound broke through the troubled quiet as a pen scrawled across a pad of paper.
"I expect that blog to be deleted next time you're here, John. If you don't do it now, you will never do it. If you never do it, you can never move on. We're done here for today."
A small hand wrapped around his shoulder. "You can do it, John."
He couldn't do it. Quickly clicking no, he slammed the laptop shut and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath, pinching his eyes shut.
He couldn't do it.
Deleting the blog and moving out of the flat at once.
He couldn't do it.
Discarding everything he had left of his friend at once.
He couldn't do it.
"Dammit," he hissed as moisture began to bud behind his closed eyelids. Rapidly blinking in attempt to dissipate the tears, he stood up, scraping the chair on the floor. His eyes traveled over the half packed flat. It tore him to leave, but without Sherlock he couldn't afford this place. Mrs. Hudson was all too willing to allow him to stay, but he knew the old lady couldn't afford that. She was too caring for her own good sometimes.
Needing to think, he tore out of the room, down the steps and out the door, snatching a coat on his way down and throwing it over his shoulders. The damp, cold air clenched his lungs and cleared his head. Relishing in the brief reprieve from the torment of his emotions, he slipped his arms into the coat and walked down the street.
The tormented man's eyes drifted towards the grey sky. The sun was nowhere in sight behind the thick blanket that the clouds created. A cold breeze tore through the street, and John pulled the high collar of the coat up to protect himself from the biting wind.
Wait, high collar?
John's feet froze to the pavement as his eyes fell down to the coat that covered his body, finally taking a good look at what he had grabbed. Instead of his short black jacket, he was cloaked in a long, dingy black coat with a high collar that had irked him so many times before when it was flipped up.
He had grabbed Sherlock's coat.
Shaking himself, he trudged on ahead trying to forget about that fact and push the memory that was starting to force itself into his mind's eye from entering. But that proved to be a futile mission, as he absentmindedly rubbed the rough material between the tips of his fingers.
The clean, distant man handed him the large plastic bag. Reluctantly, John reached out and took it, hoping with every fiber of his body that when he touched it he would jolt awake in a cold sweat. He would rub a hand over his face and see Sherlock lounging on his black chair across from him with his legs lazily crossed, his fingers steepled, his brows drawn together, and his lips set in a firm line as he asked, "Did I die in this one?" Or something else that would be remarkable brilliant yet infuriatingly annoying.
But as his shaking hand grasped the bag, all that happened was the crinkle of the cold plastic weakly echoing the chasm breaking his heart.
"We informed his brother as well that Mr. Holmes' belongings could be picked up, but he informed us that you would be quite capable of getting them. I hope it was not an inconvenience to—"
"No," he choked out shaking his head. "Ah no, it's fine. Just fine."
The man gave a curt and continued, unobservant to the flood that was being dammed in the quivering man before him, "We will need clothes desired for his burial within two days, either you or Mr. Holmes can drop those off. The body will be ready by the end of the week for the funeral."
John shook his head and picked up the pace, his feet slapping against the ground. However, the harsh sound had considerable lessened, but this fact went unnoticed by the troubled man. Unconsciously, he turned his nose into the collar and took a deep breath. A frown tugged at his lips at the scent.
It wasn't Sherlock.
It was dead.
It was fake.
It wasn't him.
The moment he had arrived at the flat, Mrs. Hudson had come to meet him. She stood with him in the doorway has he clenched the bag in his hands. The old woman wrapped her gentle hands around his tense ones and unclenched them, taking the bag from his grasp. She opened it and pulled out his coat and scarf. She then tenderly hung the articles of clothing in their proper place.
Lovingly stroking the coat, she whispered softly, "There. It'll be like he never left, minus the gunshots, and the fights, and the fridge, oh!" The woman paused as she brought and hand to her mouth, stifling her sob.
John stood behind her, unable to help comfort her, wallowing in his own misery.
Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and waved a hand, dashing tears away. "I'll put some tea on, just this once!" With a last stroke of the coat, she walked to the kitchen mumbling, "I remember it being much softer."
His feet stopped in the dying grass in front of the simple, black headstone. Shutting his eyes and pursing his lips, John tried to prevent the flood of emotions that were renewed in him. Damn feet! Why was he here? He needed to move on from this man, not keep him in his life.
For several moments, he just stood there breathing in deeply, trying to calm the raging thoughts inside his mind. Finally, he opened his eyes and stared at the taunting black marker.
"Sherlock Holmes," he whispered softly.
Clearing his throat he looked away and stuffed his hands into the coat's pockets. "I, uh, I guess this is it. You—," John's voice crack and he cleared his throat again, "you failed on that miracle."
The man sighed and looked up, hoping that the flowing tears would flow back into his eyes. "I'm being told to move on, to delete the blog." John's lips curved into a humorless smile as he continued, "You'd be happy about that; you never really cared for the blog all that much."
John became aware of soft footsteps behind him, but chose to ignore them. They were most likely someone he didn't know here to say good-bye to a loved one. And if he did know them, well, they should know to leave him alone.
"So," the man took a deep breath, preparing himself to say two words he never wanted to say to his friend, "good-bye, Sherlock."
John heard a sharp intake of breath. "Ooh, really John? And just when I was coming to say hello."
His breath caught in his throat, as he peered over his shoulder, his eyes widening as they met a familiar pair of ice blue ones.