Chapter 1
"No... Don't..." John blinked uselessly as the threat of tears became reality, "SHERLOCK!"
He was a rag doll, all limbs and coat. He was falling quickly. John was immobilized; by the time he started running it was too late. The crowd was forming around the body as he pushed through. Blood was pooling everywhere.
"I'm a doctor, let me come through... Let me come through please. He's my friend. He's my friend, please." John pleaded. The words sounded foreign.
Hands were pulling him away as he tried to take the body's pulse. There wasn't a pulse, but John could swear that he could see the body breathing.
The alarm went off abruptly, and John woke in a start. He could hear his own pulse, a dull thunder. It was a dream. The same dream he had been having at least twice a week since that fateful day. Cold sweat clung to his body, soaking through his shirt slightly. He could feel the tears on his cheeks. Some days he could get up and try to carry on as if he hadn't watched his best friend kill himself. On other days it was hard to get out of bed. On these days the flat had an empty air, as if the building itself had been sad and lonely. Today was an empty-air day. He wondered why he couldn't just leave. For months John couldn't go near Baker Street but eventually he felt as if he were dying without it.
If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do, sentiment.
Somehow small things Sherlock had said to John seemed constantly applicable to his situations. Yes, he came back due to sentiment. It broke John's heart to walk in the door and not hear Sherlock playing the violin, or watching bad television. Somehow he missed the things that irritated him to no end before- body parts in the fridge, and chemistry sets on every surface. Every bit of the apartment hurt John and reminded him how alone he was now. However Sherlock left him. He kept the flat. Sentiment.
Eventually John's heart returned to a normal pace. He could breathe without having a tight chest. Slowly, he got up out of bed and reached for his cane. The goddamn cane returned when Sherlock left. His limp made life hard with a room on the top floor, but that wasn't why John hated it. The cane was a constant reminder that he was no longer whole. Sherlock had come, showed him a whole new life, and then took it all away. Standing in front of his mirror, John did an assessment of himself. He tried to deduce his own life story out of what he saw in the mirror.
John walked with a cane, but had no signs of a leg injury while standing. A psychosomatic limp, which meant there was some kind of trauma in his past. Most likely violence if you looked at the rigid way he stood. He had a military posture- shoulders back, look forward, and standing straight. So he was in some kind of army service. There were bags under his eyes, and his clothes were all at least one size too big. Lack of sleep and appetite were both signs of grief and mourning. He had lost someone he cared about recently. Although he obviously cared about how he looked, his clothes were all second-hand and over a year old. If he couldn't afford new clothes how could he afford his own flat? There were people who either cared enough or felt guilty enough to ensure he had a comfortable life. Mrs. Hudson cared enough to lower the rent, Mycroft felt guilty enough to pay it.
John shook his head, knowing he would never be able to compare to Sherlock. He wasn't sure he wanted to. He made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. Even though it was hard for him to get up and down them so often he couldn't move into Sherlock's old room. There was something wrong with sleeping in his bed and moving all of the clothes and furniture. Sherlock always liked his room to be a certain way. Now it housed the belongings that Mrs. Hudson had packed up, mostly science equipment. The flat still looked similar to before. There was less clutter and it smelled better, but all the furniture was in the same place. Sherlock's chair remained unused and blanketed in dust.
The mornings had started becoming routine. Coffee was the first thing every morning, half a pot and as strong as John could make it. After coffee, the rest of the day would go okay. Not good, but not as bad as the mornings could be. There wouldn't be any bad dreams and he would be too busy to think of Sherlock. He would go to work at the clinic, make people better, and come back in the evening. The nights may be bad, but the days would be okay. All John needed to do was stay busy and away from the flat.
While the coffee brewed he limped up the stairs to get dressed. As he looked through his clothes, he accidently touched an old sweater. Even though John didn't look at it, he knew which it was. A light brown, almost off-white colour. Thick cable knit. He wore it often when Sherlock was around. Quickly he moved on to another drawer and got on a pair of jeans, a light blue button down shirt, and socks. Right now wasn't the time to get sentimental. That plan wasn't working, as he went back downstairs he couldn't help but remember mornings with Sherlock. Even if he was there, he never made coffee in the morning.
After John poured his own, he took down another mug and put sugar in it. He realized what he was doing just before pouring the coffee. Instead of breaking down in tears, he threw the mug across the room and watched it smash into a thousand pieces against the wall. It was justified. Anger is easier to deal with than sadness.
He left the flat without drinking his own coffee. The walls seemed to close in on him; all he could remember was Sherlock. His violin compositions. His nicotine patches. The way he was always right. He didn't care about people and saw it as an advantage. Everyone else he knew romanticized Sherlock. All too often John heard "What a brilliant man," or "It's a shame he was so misunderstood". It took all he had to hold back from correcting the silly little people that never knew Sherlock.
"He was smart, but an idiot. He was completely understood. He always made himself clear." John muttered to himself angrily as he buttoned up his jacket and called a cab. "I'll be damned if even his ghost is welcome in my flat after what he did."
