A/N: Here's something new, let me know what you think. Reviews make me update faster! =)
"SHERLOCK!"
His own scream of his flatmate's name woke John Watson from an uneasy slumber. He'd been awake, unable to rest, since that awful day. His body had finally succumbed to its need to sleep after hours and hours of staring into nothingness, but still, his dreams were haunted by Sherlock stepping off the roof of St Bart's Hospital.
It had all been a blur after he'd stumbled his way over to Sherlock's body lying broken on the pavement. He remembered flashes, of people questioning whether he was alright, of Lestrade driving him back to 221B, of Mrs Hudson attempting to ply him with tea. He felt cold, empty, broken; just like his dead flatmate, although he was forced to continue living in the sick nightmare. He knew that it had been days, that he should get up from the sofa and make himself a cup of tea or do something productive, but he just couldn't. Sherlock was gone, so what would be the point? There was nothing to get up for anymore. No cases, no adventures, no late night confrontations with criminals.
No matter how hard he stared at the empty living room in front of him, no matter how much he wished for this to be a dream, he couldn't deny the emptiness inside his chest. He hadn't cried or broken down, he'd just stopped.
"Oh John, you must eat something." Mrs Hudson sighed, placing a cup of tea and a sandwich down on the coffee table in front of the army doctor.
"I can't." John replied quietly, glancing at the sandwich before he looked away again.
"He wouldn't want this, John." Mrs Hudson said gently, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.
"I can't do this right now." John suddenly declared and stood from the sofa. Despite days of sitting, he didn't feel his muscles struggle at all as he slowly made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. He shut the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes and praying for Sherlock to call his name or to appear and declare the whole thing as one big joke.
The funeral did nothing to free John of the coldness, the heavy weight that seemed to always be resting on his shoulders nowadays. It had been arranged in just a few days and John knew that it had been Mycroft who'd pulled strings one again to arrange it. He didn't know how to feel towards Mycroft, he didn't know how to feel towards anyone anymore.
He knew that deep down he was furious with Mycroft, he wanted to rip him to shreds with his bare hands for betraying Sherlock, but he just couldn't seem to do anything but sit and stand - his gaze empty and lost.
He found himself watching Mycroft throughout the service and as the coffin was lowered into the ground, looking for any sign of emotion, of humanity, of regret or guilt. He saw none. As usual, the government official's expression was blank, hiding away the man's true feelings - if he had any at all. He felt rage beginning to boil up in his throat, suddenly wanting to punch Mycroft Holmes in the face, but he swallowed it back down and clenched his fists a little.
John didn't notice when the funeral came to an end. He just stood there, his eyes looking down at the coffin in the grave at his feet. The small golden plaque on the coffin was simple. It just read Sherlock Holmes. John wondered why it was so simple, so free of the dramatics that Sherlock had loved so much. He shook his head a little. No words could sum up a man like Sherlock Holmes anyway.
The morning after the funeral, John moved out of 221B Baker Street. Living in the empty flat that was full of haunting memories had become oppressing. He could feel Sherlock all around him, yet the man himself was gone. He packed his things into a suitcase and didn't look back. He went straight to his sister and stayed on her couch for a few days whilst he got himself a flat. It was hard to walk away from 221B, but at the same time he couldn't bear to go back to the place.
Despite Sarah's insistence that he take paid leave, John went back to work. He needed something to do and he needed to get out of his tiny new flat. He'd been forced to rent somewhere on the outskirts of the city, as his army pension and wages couldn't afford much.
John was soon sucked into the daily monotony of full time work. He got up at the same time, ate at the same time and returned from work at the same time every day. He shopped sensibly for food, carefully budgeting and counting every penny. His cupboards were filled with tins, easy and cheap meals that didn't require much thought or effort.
His colleagues at the surgery had tried to talk to him about what had happened on numerous occasions since he'd returned to work, but John refused to engage with them. He was determined to keep those thoughts locked down. He was haunted by Sherlock's fall in his sleep, he didn't need to discuss it during his waking hours too. The coldness released its hold on him as days passed by and soon he felt like he could breathe again. It was strange, he thought, it was like Sherlock had never existed. John kept a tight hold on his emotions, not wanting to be seen as weak to those around him, but even he could tell that he was heading towards an emotional breakdown. Once the emptiness, the coldness, had begun to retreat, his emotions had returned to him with full force.
It was when John found himself shouting abuse at his slow computer one afternoon that he thought maybe it was time to talk to someone. His rage had been building again and he struggled to swallow it down as he had at the funeral. He was angry. Angry at everyone for making Sherlock jump, for giving him pitying looks, for talking behind his back.
"Doctor Watson." Anthea's sharp voice dragged John out of his thoughts as he made his way out of the surgery.
"No." John replied, not even stopping to look at her. He kept walking in the direction of the tube station, hoping to miss the rush hour crush.
"Doctor Watson, please." Anthea called, following him.
"No. Tell Mycroft that he can get lost. I'm not interested in what he has to say." John snapped and continued walking, not looking back no matter what she said to him.
"What the bloody hell are these?" John shouted, practically throwing two mini surveillance cameras down onto Mycroft Holmes' Diogenes Club office desk.
"John..." Mycroft said in a tone that he intended to be soothing and calming, moving to get to his feet.
"Don't you dare get up. Sit there and tell me why the hell you've been spying on me!" John hissed, his eyes showing his fury.
Mycroft raised an elegant eyebrow, as no one dared to speak to him in such a way, but he quickly realized that John was in no mood for Mycroft's words. Reluctantly, the elder Holmes brother sat back down in his chair and watched the army doctor pace like a caged lion in front of his desk.
"It was for your own safety." Mycroft stated simply, as if that explained everything.
John turned and glared at him, slipping straight from denial into anger.