Hi! I'm back. For anyone who's wondering about my Harry Potter fic, I'll probably update it soon. It's all in my head, but I can't seem to be able to put it into words. I wasn't really please with my life chapter, so meh. Anyways, here is a new fic, and my first Sherlock fanfic. It's in John's pov (Well, at least, this chapter is. I don't know if I'll change or not.), and it's set after the Reichenbach fall. I'm planning to write 1000+ (or something like that) words per chapters, and to update it frequently. I hope you like it, and please don't forget to review. Oh, and all rights go to the BBC and to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Oh, and also to me, for writing this. Thanks!~
Rain. That was the only sound I heard when I woke up. Water, falling from the clouds in the sky, just like my best friend, Sherlock, fell to his death. Of course, I had been an army doctor. I had to watch my friends, my comrades, die. But this was different. Sherlock jumped to his death. He had called himself a fraud. He had told me to tell everyone that he was a fake. Of course, I didn't. I kept on printing posters, telling people that Moriarty was real. But no one listened to me. Of course, who would? Lestrade got fired. Molly quit. Mrs Hudson kept asking me to return to the flat. But how could I? It just wasn't the same without Sherlock. I wasn't the same. He had made me better, and I owe him for that. But now, now that he wasn't here anymore, I didn't know what to do. I had stopped updating my blog, which was still stuck at 1895 visitors, after writing one last entry. One last sentence. "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.". That summed up what I felt. For months I denied his death, thinking that he escaped somehow. For weeks, I stayed alone, in our flat, sitting in his chair, looking at the skull he kept, wondering about him. We had solved cases together, but how much did I really know? I didn't know about his childhood, his love life, his dreams. It had never occurred to me that he would fall, that he would end his life, before I could have asked those questions. I wondered if he had ever loved anyone. If he never had any friends, apart from me.
I sighed and walked to my kitchen, opening my fridge. Nearly a year after moving out, I half expected a head, or fingers, waiting for me in my fridge. I half smiled, noticing that I was out of milk. I had no way of getting money, not wanting to get a real job, and not being able to write any more. I had stopped seeing my therapist after she had accused me of not being able to move on. Of course I could move on, but I didn't want to. It was all thanks to Mrs. Hudson if I could still eat healthy meals, as she came by every week with some groceries. She was supposed to come, today, as it was Sunday. I decided to wait for her before making any breakfast.
A couple of hours later, I heard a knock and a familiar voice calling my name. I answered the door with a forced smile, greeting the old woman waiting in front of me.
"How have you been, my dear?", she said, awfully cheery. I looked at her in confusion, not knowing what she wanted me to answer. She knew how I felt, she knew what happened. How could she just live on after all Sherlock had done for her, and after all she had done for him? I replied with a small shrug, as I always did. As my shoulders moved up, my head moved down, and I noticed an extra bag between the normal two of groceries.
"What's that?", I asked, pointing to the bag curiously. She looked at me with a melancholic smile, looking sad.
"I found someone that wanted to rent the flat. So, I thought I would bring back what I thought you would want." She opened the bag slightly, letting me see a small portion of what was inside. I didn't even bother to look after seeing the grey colour of the skull.
In that instant, the time seemed to stop in my mind. I considered the idea that she was joking, but her expression told me otherwise. Someone else renting the flat? Living there? Living where Sherlock and I spent all of our time when we weren't running around London? That didn't make sense to me. Why? And why didn't Mrs. Hudson object? Didn't she know how important that place was to Sherlock and I? What is Sherlock was going to come back, but thought I had moved on because of the flat? What would I do, then? I brushed the thought out of my brain. He wasn't coming back. Thinking that would just give me fake hope. I looked at Mrs. Hudson, and, though I was going to fight back, to fight for Sherlock and for the flat, I simply walked past her, leaving my flat without looking back.