John
Every day, he would pick up the phone. Right after breakfast. It was just lying there, on the table, always on the same spot, and he never looked at it except for that one time, each day, when he picked it up and scrolled through the contacts.
Scrolling past Greg Lestrade and Harry and Molly and Mycroft, sitting between names of people he barely knew and Taxi services and Domino's Pizza and nothing that really mattered, scrolling more slowly as he got further along the alphabet, barely reaching the letter S.
And there his name stood, as if nothing had happened.
Sherlock.
Every day, his thumb would linger over the call button for a while.
Every day, he would not press the button. He would sigh, lock his phone, put it down and go back to whatever he was doing.
x
After the funeral, he moved out of 221b Baker Street. He found a tiny, cheap flat in outer London where he lived alone, a humble life, a miserable life.
A week after the funeral, his limp returned.
He found himself unable to do anything. It got to the point where it was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. He barely managed to make his therapy sessions. Not that they were any good - he just sat there while his therapist tried to get him to talk. He never said anything.
He never said anything, to anyone.
He had nightmares. The more obvious ones were Sherlock falling and falling and sometimes John was falling as well, falling and never hitting the ground before he started and woke up with Sherlock's bloodied face in his mind, his eyes staring at the sky, no life left in them, and blood, blood everywhere and the wrist underneath his fingers, the warm, familiar wrist, no life left in it, no pulse -
Sometimes he just dreamed about Sherlock's face, or dreamed about gunshots and a far-too-familiar voice yelling, "Bored!" He dreamed about the tape that contained a crime scene, any crime scene, he dreamed about weird and wonderful deductions and yellow paint and sometimes just the simple situation of getting a text, meaningless words, with the initials SH behind them.
Those dreams were those that haunted him the most, the dreams that made him want to die, the dreams that kept him in bed all day.
Those dreams were those that made him pick up his phone, scroll to Sherlock and sit for more than a minute, just staring at the 'Call' button. Every morning.
After Sherlock fell, Mycroft took his phone. John didn't know what happened to it. Presumably, it was lying in a safe somewhere, to be used as evidence someday. Or maybe, maybe Mycroft gave it back to Sherlock - maybe, maybe Sherlock was alive, hiding, and Mycroft knew about it.
He didn't really allow those thoughts. But it was them, it was this tiny spark of hope that made John pay the bill for Sherlock's phone every month. It was this tiny spark of hope that, one day about a month after the funeral, made John stare at the phone and stare and stare and finally, finally press call.
The phone rang. And rang.
John half expected that, any time now, a familiar voice would answer. Simply saying, John.
He jumped about a mile out of his chair when something clicked and he heard the voice.
But it didn't say John.
"This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message if it's something important, but don't bore me with insignificant trifles."
There was a faint beep, and John was left alone in his room, in his chair, breathing hard as if he'd just run a mile, tears stinging in his eyes.
Hearing this, hearing Sherlock's voice, the recorded message in his voicemail, brought back the sharp pain of what he'd lost. The faint beep brought back the loneliness to his room, the meaninglessness of his life without Sherlock and how lost and how helpless he really was.
For about a minute, he fought his tears, fought the memories and the pain. Eventually, he breathed a single word, the first word he'd said in weeks.
"Sherlock..."
He quickly hung up, for fear that his ghosts would come back to haunt him, as they did every night.
x
That night, it was Sherlock's voice in his dreams, just his voice saying his name, John, the last word Sherlock had spoken, and he woke to find his pillow slightly damp and not quite dried tears on his face.
He picked up the phone again after breakfast. Scrolled down to Sherlock. Hesitated, then pressed call.
"This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message if it's something important, but don't bore me with insignificant trifles."
He could still feel the grief pressing down on him, being intensified with every word he heard Sherlock say. But this time, he didn't need quite as much time as before.
"Sherlock", he said, his voice a little steadier this time.
"I miss you."
He hung up again and when he called again the next morning, he had thought long about what he wanted to say. It was simple, really. There was one thing he had to tell Sherlock, whether or not he was actually listening.
"I knew you, Sherlock, and you weren't a fraud. Nobody could have faked that, nobody could have staged that. I knew you, and you didn't lie to me. Even if I'm the only person in the world, Sherlock, and I still sometimes think I am, I mean, look at the newspapers - I might be the only person in the world who still believes in you. And I do, Sherlock. I still believe in you. I always have."
Because John knew him, and Sherlock was real. He was his friend. Had been. A genius, a brilliant mind trapped inside itself, being forced to commit suicide.
"Please, one more miracle, Sherlock. For me."
Just one.
"Don't be. Dead."
If you can hear this.
"For me."
x
It became a ritual. It was strangely therapeutic. He slept easier. He still saw Sherlock in his dreams and still heard his voice, but it was comforting instead of painful.
And he said everything he'd ever wanted to tell Sherlock. He whispered the words to the voicemail, he clung to the dry recorded voice of his friend, held on to the few sentences, always the same, never changing.
He imagined that somewhere, far off, Sherlock was alive, listening to what he said, and commenting.
"Sherlock, I didn't even knew I could miss someone as much as I miss you."
"You gave my life a purpose, a meaning after the war, you were exactly what I needed and without you, I'm nothing."
Sentiment.
"If you can hear this, please. Please let me know, please come back."
Dull.
"I know it might be sentimental. I know it is. But I can't go on like this, without you."
He started going out again. He started speaking again. He started living again, clinging only to the voice in his mobile phone, to the hope that Sherlock could hear what he had to say, to the hope that Sherlock was alive, that he would come back eventually.
He knew that is was probably pointless. He had seen the fall, he had seen the blood, he had felt for his friend's pulse, had felt no pulse, had seen the body being wheeled away. He had been at the funeral.
But he knew that if anyone could cheat death, it was Sherlock, and he knew that Sherlock was not going to let himself be beaten. Not by Moriarty, not by anyone.
So he kept calling.
He kept living, living for the hope that everything would be all right.
x
He opened a practice and found that working helped him as well. Of course, prescribing drugs for diabetes and examining sprained ankles was nothing at all like what he'd done with Sherlock, but it helped. It was something he had learned, something he had been trained to do, something that took his mind off the fact that his best friend had still not reappeared in his life.
He still kept calling, maybe not every day, but at least twice a week, he listened to Sherlock's voice and told him about his day, talked him through the things he had to do, in a way continued his blog by talking to Sherlock's voicemail.
To his patients, John always appeared to be a good, competent and caring doctor, someone who rarely smiled but always managed to make you feel better.
To his friends... John hardly had friends.
He occasionally phoned Harry and very rarely Mrs Hudson, but that was about it. He didn't date anymore and he didn't pick up any new friendships. He lived by himself, for himself and his work and his memories and he thought it would never change.
x
The dreams never left.
Sometimes he just dreamed he was back in Baker Street and the door opened and Sherlock Holmes walked in.
Sometimes he woke up and knew he had dreamed about Sherlock, but couldn't remember what.
Sometimes he woke up and knew he had cried in his sleep.
A year passed more quickly than he realised, and he hadn't heard any news of Sherlock. The newspapers had long moved on to other stories. The world seemed to have forgotten about Sherlock. Everyone but John.
Another year passed, and John's calls to Sherlock became less frequent. He worked more and he worked harder, forgetting seemed to get easier every day, but deep down John knew it was just an illusion. The dreams never left, they didn't get less frequent, they weren't any less painful.
And John's messages to Sherlock changed, slowly but gradually, and at first, John didn't even notice it himself.
"I dreamed about you again last night. It's the first time this week, but it's still the same."
"It gets harder to remember your face, Sherlock, I try all the time but the image just fades and I barely remember the colour of your eyes and the shape of your cheekbones... I'm so scared I'll forget you one day, Sherlock, I don't want to forget you..."
Sometimes he was angry, but mostly he was just sad, maybe a little disappointed, and the more time passed, the more certain he became that Sherlock was really dead - because if he was alive, he would have found his way back to John by now, wouldn't he?
"Look, if you're alive, I don't really get what you're doing, not coming back and all - I'd really appreciate a sign, Sherlock, just a sign", he practically yelled into his phone one afternoon after a particularly bad day at the practice. It wasn't even that something bad had happened; it had just been a day where nothing at all had happened, and John was really beginning to appreciate and understand Sherlock's occasional impulse to grab a pistol and shoot at the wall from boredom. He felt pretty close to that himself right now; he wished more than anything that Sherlock was back, that they were back on the line, solving crimes, chasing people halfway through London, in the middle of scandal and crime and death...
"I'm so sick of this ordinary life, Sherlock. It just feels so unbelievably meaningless without you."
x
It took almost another year before he went out with someone again. To his surprise, it wasn't a woman who had caught his eye this time - it was a man, with light golden curls, an adorable laugh and a formidable education. He had lovely cheekbones as well - they reminded John a little of Sherlock, which made Tom (that was his name) even more attractive. Apart from that, he had next to nothing in common with Sherlock - he was warm, caring and mature, and John was head over heels in love with him before he even realised what was happening to him.
Tom managed to distract John very well for a while, but soon John noticed that once again, as it had always been the case with his girlfriends, Sherlock was in the way. It was his name that would pop up in a conversation, it was his face that John still saw in his dreams. It was Sherlock's lips that John imagined on his when he was kissing Tom, Sherlock's hands touching him, Sherlock's face in his dreams...
He split up with Tom soon after he realised that. He didn't date anyone else after that.
x
He began to entertain the possibility that he might actually be in love with Sherlock Holmes. He tried to look at it logically, as Sherlock would have done. It was probably the only explanation that fit all the facts.
John had never in his life been as broken as when Sherlock died.
He dreamed of him, just seeing him, just being with him, and even now, almost three years after the fall, the dreams hadn't lost any of their intensity.
He clung on to Sherlock's voice in his voicemail and phoned every week just to hear this voice.
And he imagined kissing Sherlock when he was kissing another man.
The obvious answer was yes, John was in love with Sherlock, but it was not an answer John wanted to reach. Sherlock was dead, he was quite convinced of that now, and if John continued to live his way fixated on the stupid hope that he would one day come back, it would only lead to misery.
But of course, not thinking about it didn't really help either.
x
It took a while for him to work up the courage to tell Sherlock's voicemail. In the end, he talked for almost an hour, explaining everything, telling him about Tom, about his realisation, about his love, about his stupid hope. He felt himself crying as he told Sherlock that he loved him, again and again.
"Look, Sherlock, you mean - you meant - more to me than anything or anyone. I know you probably can't even hear me, but - I can't function without you, I can't, and I'm breaking. I'm just breaking apart without you, I have those past three years, and it's getting harder, Sherlock. It's getting harder."
He ended by begging Sherlock to come back, literally begging him, just for a sign, a sign at least, anything to show him that hope wasn't lost. Anything at all, Sherlock.
x
He didn't really expect anything big to happen. He didn't really expect anything. Sherlock was dead.
He phoned Sherlock's voicemail again, three days later, and heard the familiar voice, the familiar words... he knew the sentence so well by now, he could recognise any change to it -
"This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message if it's something important, but don't bore me with insignificant trifles."
It was the same voice, it was the same words, but it was a different recording.
The pattern of the voice had changed ever so slightly, the way that the same thing can never be said exactly the same way twice, and John would never have noticed the difference two years ago, he wouldn't have noticed it at all, but things being as they were, he did notice it.
For a second or two, he sat in silence, absorbing the fact that Sherlock had just given him a sign - he refused to interpret this as anything else. Sherlock was alive, he had his phone, he was checking his messages frequently, he had heard John's rant about being in love with him, and had decided to give him a sign.
"Sherlock", he whispered, much as he had the first time he had called him.
But he didn't disconnect at once. He hesitated for a second, then very gently said, "Come home."