First Fan Fiction! Set Post-Reichenbach, 3 years after Sherlock's 'death'. Season 2 spoilers. No slash/smut so if that's what you're looking for, you'll be disappointed. Enjoy!
Reviews would be lovely!
The funeral was attended by John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, all dressed in dark clothing - Mrs Hudson in a new black dress specifically bought for the occasion, Lestrade in his usual black suit jacket, trousers and white shirt, and John in a black jacket, black jeans and his flatmate's blue scarf. Lestrade stood silently with wet eyes, supporting the sobbing Mrs Hudson who was saying goodbye to a man she considered her own son, knowing well that no parent should bury their child. John, a military man by nature, stood with squared shoulders, spine dead straight and looking forward, trying his hardest to keep his gaze off the gold letters carved into the headstone. His expression was plain, his eyes empty, and the only thing betraying his otherwise calm facade were the fingernails digging deep into the palms on either side of his otherwise relaxed body.
John had gone back to the burial spot once.
Don't. Be. Dead. Just for me, stop it. Just stop this.
A month after the funeral, John had regrettably moved out of 221B Baker Street, knowing that he shouldn't leave Mrs Hudson, but she understood his actions, and promised that she would leave the flat as John had requested - nothing was to be touched. He wasn't sure what he would achieve by leaving the flat in its current condition, but he still had a sliver of hope - no, it wasn't hope - he still feared that what he had witnessed, what had kept him from sleeping properly, what his flatmate had said, was all true. He wanted to believe it wasn't true.
This phone call. It's uh...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.
John knew what those words meant, but every fibre in his body was screaming at him to deny them.
Leave a note when?
Goodbye John.
No. Don't.
And yet, John knew it was stupid. He had watched his best friend jum-
However much he wanted to believe that it was all a trick – a sick, twisted trick; he couldn't deny that what he had watched wasn't real. The arms spread out like great, black wings, the beautiful, perfect body leaning forward and going over, the great mind bleeding on the cold pavement.
He moved out of the flat because everything reminded him of him. The moulding petri dishes sitting on the coffee table, the chemistry set spread out on the kitchen table, the fingers in the jar at the bottom of the freezer. Not to mention the violin sitting innocently on his chair. John even had to close his bedroom door, because venturing in there usually resulted in tears, sobs and pleads as John crashed to hisbedroom floor clutching an old shirt.
And 3 years on, he sits on his old, ordinary bed, in his old, ordinary bedroom, in his old, ordinary flat. Nothing there reminds him of the past. Not the kitchen table, not the plain, cream walls, not the clean desk in the corner of the living room. Nothing except for the blue scarf that John wears as often as possible, clinging onto the only reminder he has of his best friend. His hand, which was still when he was around him, now trembles constantly. His limp had come back, unsurprisingly.
John had tried to move on. He had met people, made friends, even went as far as dating a few women. But nothing filled the vacuum that now sat inside him, the hole that he had carved out and only hewas able to fill. He remembers one occasion on a date with a woman named Sophie.
"So, how's life without that...detective? I think it's better that he's gone, a maniac like that was bound to have killed himself, and you! Better sooner than later."
John had calmly stood up, the military man that he was, politely excused himself and left without another word.
...and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.
What really got John through the long, empty days where the comments left on his blog from supporters every day. It made him happy, knowing that there were people out there who refused to believe that he was a fraud.
'I will no longer be updating this blog, due to obvious reasons. I would just like to say thank you for everyone's support, it has not gone unnoticed. His memory will live on in all of us.'
Of course, there was always that person who was out to cause havoc, and would post a gut-wrenching comment about John, or him.
You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home…there.
Lestrade came to visit about two years after that dreadful, heart-wrenching day. They had fallen out of contact, mainly because John had held resentment against Lestrade. They had agreed to meet at the local pub. Lestrade talked about cases, kept telling John how he would have enjoyed them, kept saying his name. In the two years, he hadn't spoken his name once, had avoided hearing it, seeing it. But there sat Lestrade, saying that word over and over again. John talked about his new friends, the women that he went out with.
But John was grateful that he had caught up with Lestrade. He was reaching over for his beer, and Lestrade noticed the raw flesh on the inside of his right arm, hidden beneath his jacket's coat.
'John, your arm, show me.'
John let out a deep sigh – caught; and worked the sleeve up his arm before handing it to Lestrade. His arm was littered with small cuts. Some old and scarring, some healing, and a handful raw. Lestrade had then spent the next six months helping John out of his depression and self-harming, something he had kept from everyone for almost a year. Lestrade had helped him the way he had helped him out of his drug addiction before John had appeared.
John, still sitting on his bed, glanced at his watch and stood up. Time for his afternoon stroll.
Next chapter should be up in the next few days, and will focus on Sherlock's side of things! REVIEW :)