Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock, nor so I own any other Sherlock Holmes title. I'm just writing this because I felt like angsting; so, sadly, I'm not making any sort of profit from this either.
Last Remembering
There were very few things in The Doctor's life that compared to finding new and inventive ways to hate himself; a cup of freshly brewed tea almost too hot to taste, flipping though bad programming on the telly, breaking something he knew he'd want to use tomorrow, purposefully driving off bedmate after bedmate because he couldn't stand the sight of them for more than a few days.
Because, you see, John Watson was indeed nothing special, and rode the same fine line of egotism and self-deprecation that the rest of the world did.
His adventures with Sherlock Holmes had opened his eyes, yes, and had helped him to grow past the horrors of the war, but it had not become the touchstone he'd hoped it would be.
He could now only look at those years with a wasted bitterness for a man he'd never really gotten a chance to really say goodbye to. With an all consuming sorrow that came with any remembrance of who was once his closest companion; as with any image of his face that entered his mind, sitting in his customary recliner with fingers steepled and sleeves rolled to his elbows to reveal nicotine patches that he claimed to help him concentrate, the memories would always flash that of concrete and dark red blood that was so black it was almost indistinguishable from that of his coat and hair.
Sherlock Holmes had helped him to overcome his nightmares of the war alright; replacing gunfire and screams for that of watching the most important person in his world falling in slow motion, to land in a bloodied, broken heap of what was once a great man.
And it was there that his mind would freeze, forcing him to stare at the lifeless corpse that was all at once the embodiment of all his hopes and dreams.
He fancied them to have a future in 221B Baker Street; to have an endless stream of mysteries to solve, an adventure that was everlasting.
Sometimes, John Watson awoke thinking himself to hear the sorrowful woeings of a violin, or smelling the pungent aroma of steeping tea. But these were things he knew not to be real. And so he continued on his mornings, ignoring the specter that haunted his days.
Trying franticly to learn to live again without Sherlock Holmes, though too much of a self-loathing creature to ever attempt to remove himself from the place causing him the most pain.
He slept in Sherlock's bed, and he sat in Sherlock's chair, and he saw Sherlock's face wherever he went. But he knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
Sherlock Holmes was dead, and he was not coming back.
Note: Just a short piece since I felt in a kindred mood, and so wrote about Watson's self-hatred in the days following Sherlock's great fall. Yep. That's about it.