Author's Note: Very short drabble written after seeing Reichenbach Falls. Just a little stretching and study of the loveable John Watson. Unbeta'd and unbrit-picked. Its very short though, so I doubt it really would need either. R and R.
When mum died, John threw himself into Medical School.
When dad died, John threw himself into the army, into Afghanistan.
When his career died and his sister started drowning herself in the drink, John threw himself into Sherlock Holmes.
When Sherlock Holmes died, John did too.
It wasn't in the literal, physical sense. He was there, his body went through the motions. But as the blood pooled over the concrete and the pulseless wrist slid from his grip, his soul and mind went somewhere else temporarily. It was like dying really. There was a huge, indescribable pain in his chest, like the tearing of a bullet through a shoulder or the last gasp of breath from a hanged man or the sudden, sharp pain of a stopping heart. And then there was nothing but free-falling, of denial and loss and where do I go now's.
There's supposed to be a flash of light or something when death comes knocking. John realizes that light is the life leaving you. He saw that light and it wasn't till much later, sitting barefoot at their... his... their flat in 221 B that he took the time to ask,"Why am I still here?"
He hadn't cried, not even at the funeral or at the therapists or at his last visit to the grave. He'd sobbed, he'd broken to pieces, but he was a soldier and the tears never came. Never.
When Sherlock Holmes died, John did too.