AN: Beforehand, I'd like to apologize for the crap formatting. It wouldn't allow the way I originally it to look like, but I have it the way I want on AO3 if you want to look there. The fic is the same name, and I go my castielevate there, too.
This is my first Sherlock fic, so I hope you enjoy. (:
Stage 1 - Denial
The cursor blinked on the dimly lit screen, unmoving. John's fingers rested on the home keys, bloodshot eyes staring blankly at the empty blog entry. No, he couldn't do it. His fingers removed themselves from the keys and ran through his knotted hair. He couldn't write about Sherlock's death, because Sherlock wasn't dead.
John closed the screen of his laptop with a sigh. Another day gone, blog un-updated, therapist disappointed. Lather, rinse, repeat.
...I was so alone...
Hours, Days, Weeks passed. Missed calls and stacked bills and unopened condolences. John knew he couldn't afford to keep the flat, so did Mrs. Hudson albeit saying nothing, yet he couldn't let it go. Sentimentality, Sherlock would scold him, was a weakness and it was profoundly unnecessary yet always present to those weaker-minded. Not like him, he would say.
But the truth is that John couldn't let the flat go to some unknowing newlyweds or others of the sort because he just knew Sherlock would surprise him, show up one day and make some smart-ass comment about where he's been. He had to. He always does.
...No-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie...
Stage 2 - Anger
The cars moved by, flashes of headlights filled with incognizant minds, oblivious and carefree to the problems of the world around them. The sounds of suburban London could be heard over the silence of the flat; alarms and sirens and angry drivers honking their horns carelessly.
The silence was interrupted. Knock, knock, knock. Once, twice, three times at the door. Mrs. Hudson, presumably. John couldn't be bothered to get up out of the recliner.
...so alone, and I owe you so much...
Knock, knock, knock. Three times again, this time accompanied by the soft lullaby voice of the landlady. "I know you're in there John." She said pitifully. "I'm coming in."
The door handle rattled and the hinges creaked as Mrs. Hudson opened it enough to peek her head through. He could hear the faint click of her shoes on the hardwood floor as she walked through to the kitchen. "You can't stay like this forever dear." She said. "It's been hard on us all, I know, but you need to at least get out of the flat."
"I do get out of the flat." John said defensively.
"Work doesn't count." Mrs. Hudson retorted with a sidelong glance. "I mean for a stroll or something, you know, get some fresh air."
"I do get fresh air!" John nearly shouted, pushing up from the chair to face Mrs. Hudson. "I go outside, and I get groceries and I pretend nothing's ever happened! I go on and live my life, pretending everythings fine and dandy even though it's not. Do you want to know why?" His voice cracked, tears stinging at his eyes. Mrs. Hudson sighed and John held back a sob. "My best friend's dead." he whispered.
...one more thing, one more miracle...
Stage 3 - Bargaining
John's fingers gripped the pistol, turning it over in his hand as he looked over his firearm, shifting uneasily on his bed. He wasn't seriously thinking about it, was he? He hadn't even known this man well over a year ago.
But then again, everything has changed hasn't it? Nothing was the same. Not really...
He flipped the gun over in his palm, fingers wrapping around the grip. Maybe, just maybe if he went through with this he would see his best friend again. If the preachers on the street corners were right, he'd see his friend again. If not, atleast he wouldn't have to live without him, right?
John stood up, gun still in hand, and walked over to his desk. His fingers grazed the edge of the note he had addressed to Mrs. Hudson. With an uneasy steadiness, he walked back over to his bed and sat down.
...you were the best man...
One click, and the gun was ready. Another, and the safety was off.
John squeezed his eyes shut and raised the pistol to under his chin. Quick results with minimal pain. His index finger moved to the trigger and his heart started beating faster. Apply pressure, dead. If Sherlock was gone, he would be too.
1, 2, 3, squeeze, no wait, don't, yes, no, do it, can't, pull the trigger, stop, go, wait, no, yes, no yes noyesnoyesno...
He opened his eyes and lowered the gun.
Not today.
Stage 4 - Depression
He curled in closer on himself, fingers twisting in the blue fabric of Sherlock's scarf, bringing it closer to his nose to inhale the scent. It was the smell of London and black tea, nicotine and expensive cologne but mostly it was just something oh-so-Sherlock and it made John's heart clench.
It was the smell of the Sherlock that would hold up police tape for him and drag him through crowds of tourists but also give him shy kisses and hold him when he had nightmares or flashbacks and he was gone and John couldn't do anything about it.
He couldn't do anything about Sherlock, so why do anything at all? Not that he would want to.
... you told me once that you weren't a hero...
Even getting up for work was a chore. Dragging himself out of Sherlock's bed (it still smelt like him) only to see the yellow smiley face in the wall or a leftover experiment in the microwave and be reminded that he was gone again and again and again.
John wished he still had faith, he wished oh so dearly that he believed Sherlock would come back to him one day, holding him close saying it's all been a dream but it's been months and there hadn't even been a sign of him. He still believed in Sherlock of course, he wasn't a fake and John knew that but maybe he was really, actually, dead.
Stage 5 - Acceptance
beep beep beep
The sound of John's alarm clock went off and his hand immediately went to the snooze button because why was it going of this early on Saturday oh. Right. He raised himself off of his bed and got dressed, movements languid and not-yet-awake. Today was the day he was supposed to show some folks around the flat because he couldn't afford it anymore.
Not without Sherlock.
Mrs. Hudson had asked if he could show the young couple around and he was honestly confused as to why but she just shrugged him off saying she was getting too old and offered him a cuppa.
...one more miracle, Sherlock...
They were bound to come look at the flat at about noon but John still had some tidying up to do, sweeping and doing dishes and making the bed. Things he'd never had to do before Sherlock died because Sherlock would always be pulling John away to a new and intriguing case which left no time for simple chores.
But this was different. Sherlock was gone.
Knock knock knock at the door. But it was only 10:30, they shouldn't be here yet.
...I was so alone, and I owe you so much...
John walked slowly to the door, fixing his jumper and smoothing his hair so he could make a better impression. He grabbed the brass handle and twisted, opening the door.
And then slammed it shut again.
...Don't. Be. Dead...
John furrowed his brows. It couldn't be... No, it wasn't... was it?
He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. He opened it slowly, this time aware at what he was going to see.
Standing there with the signature great coat and blue scarf, was none other than Sherlock Holmes, fake genius dead by suicide. John's lips moved, unable to form words. He just stared in disbelief at his best friend no, boyfriend, no, dead colleague, no, what? John took a step forward, head cocked to the side in confusion. "But..." he started, "You're dead."
"Really, John. Obviously I'm no-"
"I watched you die, Sherlock." John stated, anger creeping into his voice. "You ar- were dead."
"John, please, let me explain." Sherlock whispered.
John rubbed his forehead with a sigh. "You better have a bloody fantastic explanation for this, you idiot."
Fin