John Watson woke up as his alarm rang for the second time. He untangled his arm from the mess of sheets, and hit the off button with more force than was strictly necessary. Kicking his legs free from the cocoon of sheets they'd made during the night, John sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the sweat from his brow. His therapist had said the nightmares were normal and would stop eventually, but John knew these dreams would be with him until the day he died. What he didn't know was which dream was worse: some nights he dreamed of Sherlock alive and well, but had to wake up to the freshly painful realization that Sherlock was gone; other nights he dreamed of Sherlock lying on the ground, beautiful black curls wet with warm red blood, and he woke up screaming, his fingers desperately searching for a pulse that he never found.
Last night it had been the latter. John slowly counted to 100, as he did every morning, to distract himself from the nightmare. Forty, put on trousers, forty-one put on shirt, forty-two left sock, forty-three right-sock. By the time he had finished he was shaved and was brushing his teeth, and he hadn't thought about Sherlock once. While he made breakfast, John glanced at the morning paper. As he saw the date line, he blanched. One year, to the day. One. Whole. Year. One year since his best friend jumped off a building with no explanation, no warning, and no proper goodbye. John gripped the paper so tightly it tore a bit around the edges of his hands then threw it back on the worn table. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. He put on his coat and left for work.
After that day twelve months ago, John had left London, hoping the fresh start would help him forget. He'd found a cheap flat in a smaller town to the north, and a job at the local clinic. As he walked, he carefully examined the faces of any tall dark haired men, still praying for his miracle, still unable to forget. After fifteen minutes of brisk walking, John reached his office, and as he did every morning, paused at the door for a moment before entering. He took deep breaths, each one pushing the sadness, the pain, and the nightmares farther to the back of his mind. After three breaths, John felt empty, but prepared to face another day.
He ate lunch alone. It was easier that way. It was hard enough for him to do the basics like eating, sleeping and working. People were hard. Friends were harder. Friends were work. It was funny, he thought, staring at his sandwich, Sherlock should have been the most difficult friend to have, but it never felt like work. John quickly pushed that idea to the back of his mind, but he wasn't quite fast enough. It wasn't safe to think about Sherlock on the job. John blinked back tears, and looked around to make sure no one had seen. No one had.
The day drew on, like the day before it had, and the day before that. This was his existence now. There were no mysteries, no blog, no Mrs. Hudson, and no Sherlock. Every day it was the same doctors, the same diseases, the same patients, and the same rooms, with the beige walls and the green carpet. John hated that carpet. Sometimes he felt that time had slowed to a crawl after Sherlock died, each day longer and more miserable than the last. Just when he thought he couldn't stand one more minute, the receptionist switched the sign out front from OPEN to CLOSED, and he was free. After a brief detour to get Chinese, John once again found himself alone in his flat. The newspaper was still on the small table where he had left it that morning. He ate alone again, straight from the container.
John knew his therapist was worried about him. John also knew his therapist should probably be a great deal more worried about him. For weeks after Sherlock's death it had taken all of his energy just to get out of bed, to breathe, to eat. With each passing moment, he had felt the grief all over again, as if for the first time. But gradually the intensity had dimmed, and John found he could keep the worst of the pain at bay during his waking hours. But at night it had free reign in his subconscious, and it was devastating.
Over the past months John had erected a facade of normalcy, trying to convince Dr. Thompson, and himself, that he was in fact recovering. For a while it had worked, but lately she had started to notice that he wasn't going anywhere, and he wasn't doing anything except work. She'd started asking him about friends, hobbies.
"It takes all my strength to get through each day as it is. Every second is a battle with grief," John had explained.
"John, you need to stop fighting with your grief and let it go," she'd said.
John clenched his jaw and replied, "I can't."
"I don't think that's quite accurate." Dr. Thompson watched his face closely. "John, you're a soldier, and your first instinct is to fight. But this is a battle you can't win. He's gone. Fighting it won't bring him back. You need to build yourself a new life. Because this-what you're doing now-this isn't a life, it's a holding pattern. You need a new life without him. He's not coming back, and you need to stop waiting for him."
She was right. She was, obnoxiously, usually right. Except about your leg, he thought to himself with half a smile and a single tear, Sherlock had been right about that. John wasn't ready to give up on his miracle. But each passing day made it harder for John to find hope. If Sherlock was alive, why hadn't he come back? It'd been a year, surely Sherlock wasn't planning on hiding forever?
The single tear had become many tears, and John covered his face with his hands. "I'm so alone," he whispered through his fingers to his now dark flat, "and I still owe you so much." John wiped away the tears with a napkin still dirty with smudges from his Chinese. "I will never believe those lies you know," John said, his voice getting louder and echoing around the empty flat. He got up and cleared the table, old floorboards creaking under his bare feet, "Moriarty was real. No one else may believe it. But I do-" John gasped in realization. Of course Sherlock hadn't come back yet. Sherlock couldn't come back. Everyone thought Sherlock Holmes had orchestrated all those crimes. If people knew he was alive-if he came back-he'd be thrown in prison. Until his name was cleared, Sherlock wouldn't come back.
And in that moment, John knew what he had to do. He would prove that Richard Brook was a fake and that Sherlock was innocent. Sherlock had probably fled the country, he couldn't access his usual networks. Sherlock couldn't prove himself innocent. But John could. It wouldn't be easy; but he would find a way. He had to find a way. And it would give him something to do that wasn't trying not to think about Sherlock. It could be like a hobby. Dr. Thompson had said he should get a hobby, hadn't she? John cracked a smile and chuckled, imagining Dr. Thompson's face if she heard about his investigation. He was pretty sure the words "psychologically toxic" would be involved.
That night, before the nightmares began again, he whispered, "I owe you at least that much, Sherlock. I'll clear your name for you, but in-in return, please, will you come back to me? Will you come back for me?" His empty flat offered him no answer, but all the same he felt a small fire of hope kindle in his chest.